


Gunpowder

by xoTsundoku



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Action, Affectionate Tipsy Fushimi, Aftercare, All ships besides Sarumi are side pairings, Anal Sex, Angst, Biting, Breathplay, Car Chase, Choking, Clothed Sex, Coping With Social Anxiety, Dirty Talk, Drama, Drunk Fushimi, Emotional Intimacy, Emotional Numbness, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Fantasizing, Fingering, Fluff, Frottage, Fushimi In Suspenders, Fushimi is a lowkey ride or die, Gangs, Gangster!Yata, Glove Kink, Googling Intensifies, Gunrunning!HOMRA, Hacking, I don't have enough medical knowledge for this, Implied Previous Crossdressing, Is that a thing, Izumama, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Manly men and their manly guns, Marking, Masochism, Masturbation, Med Student!Fushimi, MikoRei Slow Dance, Mikoto is a BAMF, Misaki Is Vocal As Usual, Misaki Is a Pro, New York setting, No one is safe happiness is an illusion they're playing with guns, Oral Sex, Pillow Talk, Previous Goth Fushimi, Reisi is too old for this shit, Riding, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Seduction, Shower Sex, Social Anxiety, Switching, Tatara Is Best Boy, Tattooed Mikoto, The Tags Are Out of Control, Turf wars, Violence, Voice Kink, Warming Lubricant, Wingman Reisi, all that good gay shit, catching feelings, elevator make out, everyone is a disaster switch, handjobs, morning after sex, somewhat slow burn, throat swabbing, unintentional phone sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-04-21 03:58:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 137,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14276433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xoTsundoku/pseuds/xoTsundoku
Summary: Misaki Yata is a gangster with a good heart. Saruhiko Fushimi is a medical student who hates everyone. They meet one summer night when a rival gang declares war on HOMRA and it lands Yata in the hospital with a gunshot wound.Fushimi is a total asshole.Yata couldn't possibly fall for him.





	1. Gauntlet

Misaki Yata was smiling when he got shot.

 

The rolling bay doors were open on either end of the warehouse. HOMRA had entered from one side and JUNGLE from the other. There was a rare breeze for it to be a humid night in July, and it tickled through the locks of hair not covered by his beanie. It was a great night for a stoop party at Rikio's place. He was probably cooking already which made him want to finish this deal on the double.

 

“That's all of them. Not a serial number in sight. Just like you wanted, Nagare.” There was an arch note of warning in Mikoto's voice.

 

Chink, chink. Chink, chink.

 

Izumo was on the other side of Mikoto but Yata didn't have to look to know he was flipping his lighter between his fingers. Yata didn't let his eyes stray from the three JUNGLE members across from him. Handicapped though he may be, Nagare was sharp. He would notice the flick of Yata's eyes. He would know something was wrong. Yata kept his worry quiet as he listened to the telltale sign that something was rubbing Izumo the wrong way.

 

A little faster now. Chink, chink, chink. Chink, chink, chink.

 

Nagare inclined his head and the tall man to his left took his cue and picked up the briefcase. Yata's jaw tightened. The man holding the case was Yukari, a lunatic in lip gloss. He inspected the weapons and nodded to his boss. In the dim lighting, his eyelashes through shadows down his face, rather giving the impression of tear tracks. Yata almost snorted at the thought. Everyone in JUNGLE was a damn sociopath.

 

“You made quick work of this, Mr. Suoh. You have an impressive team. It is unfortunate that technology will exceed the reach of man and render them useless one day,” Nagare said.

 

Yata rolled his eyes. Just because he had a special techy wheelchair and knew how to hack a computer didn't mean they were on a fast track for some I-Robot kind of shit. He held his tongue, though. Nagare was always spouting nonsense and it was a waste of his breath as well as HOMRA's time to start a conflict. After a few tenuous dealings with the newly reformed JUNGLE he had stopped picking fights over the little stuff. Going by the sound of his Zippo knocking against his fingers, Izumo was tiring of the chitchat, too.

 

“I think I got awhile before I have to worry about that,” Mikoto said. He put a cigarette between his lips and felt for a light.

 

The third member of JUNGLE smiled, the only one who had yet to speak. His black outfit and jovial smile put Yata uncomfortably in the mind of a priest. Iwafune's face was lined and his mousy brown hair was going gray at the roots but he wasn't to be underestimated. None of them were.

 

“I'm so glad we can all get along,” Iwafune said and spread his hands pleasantly.

 

It was constant now, without pause. Chink, chink, chink, chink, chink.

 

Mikoto patted his pockets to no avail and grumbled a wordless request to Izumo. He turned his head for his strategist to give him a light. Izumo did, but Yata would bet if he could see past the tinted shades that Izumo's eyes never left the men across from them. The cigarette crackled quietly as the paper began to burn away.

 

“Don't worry, I think these things'll kill you long before the robots take over,” Izumo said.

 

The strategist didn't have any room to talk. Yata didn't have the nerve to give the boss lip but it was always funny to hear Izumo and Tatara give him a hard time.

 

No goodbyes were said between the two gangs as they began to part ways. Yukari turned away first and Nagare followed with a buzz of his wheelchair. Yata was glad. He would rather not put his backs to them, anyway. He was also relieved to see Iwafune lower his spread hands and make to follow his team. It was time to go home.

 

Izumo closed his lighter too hard. _Clack._

 

Confusion took a long second to register in Yata's mind before instinct kicked in.

 

 _ClANG-clang-clang._ The sound of the lighter hitting the cement floor echoed through the warehouse.

 

Izumo must have seen Iwafune's hand go under his robes because he was already in motion when the gleam of silver caught Yata's eye. His and Yata's next movements were not perfectly synchronized but they were united by the same purpose and that was to protect Mikoto. Izumo grabbed Iwafune's wrist and pushed the gun to the side, bringing his hand up to force him to release it. He redirected the barrel only for to Iwafune wrench his arm away before he could be disarmed.

 

This only put Izumo off track for an instant. He didn't have an opening to draw his own weapon but he knocked Iwafune off balance with a quick strike to the ribs and swept him while his weight was mostly on one foot. Yata's hand hesitated on the pistol in the back of his waistband. He could disarm Iwafune while Izumo had him in a tight hold on the ground but no free hand to take the weapon himself, but that would mean leaving Mikoto.

 

He spared a moment to look at their leader. Mikoto spit his cigarette onto the ground. His next movements were not hurried. He slid his hands under his fur trimmed jacket and sighed.

 

“Leaving one man to take us all on? That isn't very nice, Nagare.”

 

When he took his hands out there was a MAC-10 in one hand and its magazine in the other, and he connected them in a fluid movement. Yata guessed he should have known better to worry about the boss. He reached under the jacket he had tied around his waist to conceal his own Beretta 92 and brought it to bear. The embossed HOMRA symbol on the grip danced in the increasingly bright space as lights from the warehouse district began to pour in through the 45. caliber sized holes that Mikoto was littering the walls with. Yata heard a body collide with the floor over the rapid popping of the MAC-10 and centered his focus on Izumo while Mikoto flushed out the other JUNGLE members that might still be close by.

 

Iwafune had reversed his and Izumo's positions. In Yata's moment of distraction the strategist had knocked Iwafune's revolver away but the man was proficient fighting hand to hand. He had strength that held up against Izumo's speed. Yata's grip was firm, but there was sweat beading up on his forehead that he couldn't hope to blame on the humidity; he had spent hours at the range, blown out windows, shot out tires, but he had never had to shoot a person before.

 

_Don't think of him as a person, think of him as the enemy. It's him or Izumo. He might maneuver his way back to the revolver before Izumo can draw his own gun, and Mikoto is after the other two. Don't let Iwafune get the upper hand. You're a good shot, and this is close range. Shoot him._

 

Mikoto ran for one end of the warehouse. He must have found Nagare and Yukari. He yelled something over his shoulder that Yata didn't hear over his own racing heart and the sound of the two men struggling before him. He cocked the Beretta.

 

_End this so you and Izumo can back up the boss. Yukari is even more dangerous than Iwafune._

 

“Yata!”

 

Izumo's voice woke him up. All at once he felt it – the fire that burned through HOMRA, the one that gave him strength. He jolted and his hands steadied on the gun. His next inhalation was steady again. Mikoto had made him the spearhead of HOMRA's vanguard; he wasn't about to make the boss regret it.

 

His face split into a grin. “I've got him, Mr. Kusanagi!”

 

“He's got my-”

 

_-gun!_

 

Yata didn't hear the word but he saw it.

 

His ears were ringing, and rather than the warehouse he found himself in the shooting range. He was watching Izumo fire his long gun with the silver barrel. The protective goggles weren't all that different in color from Izumo's tinted sunglasses. Yata had found that funny for some reason. Then he noticed the differences between their weapons. He recognized almost anything similar or different to his gun; he was kind of obsessed after finally getting his own. Izumo had actually helped him choose it. In this case what caught his eye was that the strategist's gun didn't seem to kick as much.

 

“ _These are twenty-two caliber rounds, they're smaller and less powerful than yours.”_

 

_Yata had looked down at his Beretta that chambered nine millimeter. “Why would you want a less powerful gun?”_

 

“ _This is a Smith & Wesson Victory. It has a simple assembly and I can change its parts easily to suit my needs. You know how I like planning over power.”_

 

Thump.

 

It sounded too heavy to be his gun. He felt around for what fell and found the cement floor closer than he expected. Oh. He was what fell. The Beretta was still held loosely between his fingers. He couldn't hear much over the ringing, but one of the distant sounds seemed to take the shape of his name.

 

The blurry shape of Iwafune wasn't moving. Izumo was coming closer, coming into focus. He was pulling Yata into a horizontal position over his lap with his legs stretched out. Yata looked down. One side of his dark green cargo shorts was darker than the other, with a hole that wept red. He forced his eyes back to Izumo. That was a lot of blood. He wasn't squeamish about it, but he felt like staring at it was going to make it feel a lot worse than it was.

 

_These are twenty-two caliber rounds._

 

“You're okay, Yata. Just hang tight.”

 

_Smaller._

 

Mikoto was back. “What the shit happened?”

 

_Less powerful._

 

“Iwafune got my gun and put one in Yata's leg before I got it back and took him out. The bleeding's heavy, if it's an artery he might not make it back to the bar for Chitose to patch him up.”

 

The ground was going away again. Someone was carrying him. It could have been either of them, really. They both smelled like cigarettes. His head felt heavy, lolling back over someone's forearm. He held on to his memory of the shooting range. Better to be shot by the Victory than Iwafune's own gun that packed a bigger punch. Iwafune's gun probably fired...something big. Numbers floated around in Yata's head but they were all out of order.

 

There were some muttered curses, and then, “He needs a hospital. You're gonna have to take him in there, Izu, you're a lot cleaner on paper than I am.”

 

“Drop us off. I'll handle it.”

 

 

 

Yata didn't remember when he began flying or when all the people started touching him. He just knew their voices were too loud and the lights were too bright. His body was gliding along, maybe working on its own accord to escape all the shouting. Wherever he was, it was cold. Izumo and Mikoto's voices didn't seem to be among the rest of the cacophony. There was one that was louder than the others but it was deep and smooth, a steady thrum in the background coordinating the rest like a bass note.

 

“A hundred and twenty beats per minute and climbing, he's-”

 

“Skin's cool to the touch, pupils are-”

 

“-almost twenty people in here from the shooting at the nightclub, I need hands.” There was the one that stood out from the others, the metronome keeping Yata's confusing world on beat.

 

“Dr. Awashima was already called over for the nightclub victims, we don't have-”

 

“-in the middle of shift change between two student trauma teams.”

 

The deep voice again. “Who's turn was it to stay and do the handoff to the next team?”

 

“Fushimi.”

 

His gliding body turned and his head swam. He wanted a blanket, or even just to be at Rikio's place in the warm night air. Anything to stop the chills. His hand twitched feebly at the effort of getting someone's attention but his fingertips were numb and when he opened his mouth, he heard an aborted sound he barely recognized as his own voice. The doctors were speaking at the same fast pace, some of their words overlapping and leaving pieces of conversation hanging, disjointed in the air.

 

“- been on call for twenty-three hours, sir.”

 

“Page him to scrub in.”

 

Yata closed his eyes. When he opened them again everything had gone still. The noise had faded to a background hum. He smiled; that was much better. There were still doctors but there was much longer pauses between their words. He was a talker, himself, but they were too much all once like that. He closed his eyes again. Finally, he could get some sleep. Maybe if he got some rest he would remember why he was there.

 

There was a pinch in the crook of his arm, and someone turned the lights off.

 

 

 

It was hard to distinguish between his dreams and when he was awake. His thoughts blurred at the edges and ran together. He could have sworn he was in the back of Mikoto's car but then he wasn't, the leather upholstery turning to crisp, clean smelling sheets before turning to cement. There was blood on the cement and he could smell it, not the coppery tang of the wound but the powder.

 

The ground turned back into sheets and he found them clenched between his fingers. Stay there, he thought, just stop changing. They were coarse against his own calloused fingers and most importantly they were real.

 

_This is a Smith & Wesson Victory._

 

Fluted silver barrel, lighter weight than the factory piece.

 

_Planning over power._

 

That made sense but it wasn't Izumo holding it, he didn't plan for this.

 

_He always has a plan, he's always two steps ahead of everyone else._

 

But the cement had turned red.

 

“Fuck,” he said, either in his dream or awake, he didn't know.

 

What he did know was that he got fucking shot.

 

“Good evening to you as well, Mr. Yata.”

 

His eyes shot open. He almost closed them again as the fluorescent light overhead assaulted his senses. That voice was familiar, though, and he squinted to adjust before seeking it out. Everything in the room was the same. It took a minute to distinguish the different whites from each other. Finally, the white wall became a white coat and beyond that there was a man. The details of his face came into focus as he walked over to the bed.

 

“Mettanome.”

 

The doctor had pale eyes behind rimless glasses, and they blinked at him. “Pardon?”

 

“Metronome,” Yata corrected once he relocated his tongue inside his mouth. “You're the doctor.”

 

“I am indeed a doctor, I'm Dr. Munakata.”

 

Gloved fingers pressed against his neck, feeling for swelling if he had to guess. He didn't think he was allergic to whatever was in his system it was just making him loopy. It was even making the doctor's eyes look purple. The man was tall with broad shoulders, and longer strands of hair hanging down either side of his face looked to be the color of a raven's feather.

 

“Your friend tells me he mistakenly discharged his weapon while cleaning it.”

 

Yata giggled. He couldn't imagine Izumo doing anything by mistake especially that involved a firearm. “Yep. That's right. No hard feelings.”

 

“I see. How are you feeling now?”

 

“I feel like whatever you got me on is working.”

 

Dr. Munakata chuckled, a deep sound that matched the commanding voice he remembered from his hazy state earlier. “Morphine. I'm pleased you aren't in pain.”

 

“It kind of sucks but it's okay. I had to get shot sooner or later, right?”

 

The doctor gave him an odd look and he instantly regretted his words but his brain-to-mouth filter didn't seem to be working. Thankfully Dr. Munakata consulted his file for a moment before continuing as if he hadn't said anything. “Someone will be with you shortly to do a bit of a check-up and then we'll let you get some much needed rest.” His lips turned up in a way that took the edge off his stern demeanor.

 

Yata had disliked being in doctor's offices since he was a kid and never outgrown it, but this guy didn't seem too bad. He didn't seem to fall in with most of the doctor's Yata had known in the way that he either wore a false brightness, or was on the other end of the spectrum as a bastard with a palpable superiority complex. Maybe it was the euphoria from the drugs but this doctor seemed more real. Then again he hadn't been in a doctor's office since he moved out of his mom and step-dad's place and was no longer forced to go to checkups.

 

The doctor drew himself up to his full and rather impressive height.

“You lost a lot of blood but I expect you to make a full recovery, Mr. Yata. The bullet was extracted without complications and it missed your femoral artery. Which reminds me,” the doctor said, and took something off the counter to his side.

 

“Being shot is a traumatic experience so please do not take me for making light of it, but to survive it is something to be proud of. I thought you might like to have this.”

 

Enough of Yata's motor functions had returned for him to take the glass phial. Inside was a familiar piece of metal. He met the doctor's gaze. Since the shooting had been an accident, it seemed strange he would be given the bullet like a badge of honor. He was jarred by the understanding in Dr. Munakata's eyes. They said plainly that he wasn't buying Izumo's story but, for whatever reason, he wasn't going to ask for the real one. Yata curled his fingers around the phial and inclined his head, and Dr. Munakata nodded back.

 

The room became eerily quiet when the doctor left. Yata let his head fall back on the pillow. The phial felt heavy, and he realized how much worse it could have been. He had hesitated back there and any one of the members of HOMRA in that warehouse could have been killed. He held the phial to his chest. It would be a reminder that next time he may not get off so easy. Next time it could be that artery Dr. Munakata mentioned, or it might be Izumo or even the boss that took a bullet.

 

He wondered what happened to Nagare and Yukari. Even for Nagare's cold nature it seemed out of character to set Iwafune on them alone, as he was Nagare's advisor but the man must have had a reason. The drugs were making it hard for Yata to focus, to try to work through what might have gone through Nagare's head. He didn't know why he was bothering. Even as he laid there Izumo was probably firing ideas back and forth with Mikoto, having stepped into Nagare's mind as though it were his own. Figuring out motives was his thing. He figured out the why and Yata figured out the when to beat the shit out of them. It was a good arrangement.

 

The door opened again and another member of the hospital staff entered. His head was lowered to look at a clip board but he looked a little shorter than Dr. Munakata, more narrow in the shoulders. Yata sat the phial next to him and pushed himself onto his elbows.

 

“You here to cut me loose?” he asked.

 

“Tch. You're not going anywhere just yet.”

 

He swallowed. The high, somewhat raspy voice was pleasant, in a unique sort of way. He would bet it sounded even nicer when it wasn't edged with annoyance.

 

Yata looked at the navy scrubs but the laminated badge around his neck was too far away to read. “Are you my nurse?”

 

The man finally looked up and glared at Yata over the top of his glasses, with eyes the color of a storm. His hair spilled like shadows over one side of his face. “Your arm, please.”

 

Yata frowned at having his question ignored but he did as he was asked. The man, a doctor he guessed since he got such an unhappy look for calling him a nurse, pulled a stool over and sat down to begin securing the blood pressure cuff. Part of his face was obscured by those long bangs but Yata studied the rest of it while his blood pressure was taken. The doctor's lips were pressed into a thin line that didn't look accustomed to smiling. That might have been the result of exhaustion, if the dark circles under his eyes were anything to go by.

 

“When do I get to leave?”

 

“You ask a lot of questions.”

 

Yata gaped. He was pretty sure answering his questions was part of this guy's job. “Your bedside manner is shit.”

 

The doctor blinked once in surprise before his cool, bored expression returned. “I'm sorry.”

 

He didn't sound very fucking sorry.

 

“I can speak with Dr. Munakata about plans for your discharge, he only requested that I take your vitals. Your bandages were changed shortly before you woke up.”

 

Yata nodded and let a brief silence fall between them. He was starting to remember why he hated hospitals. He hadn't been to one since he was a kid but they all seemed to be full of condescending jerks. The doctor earlier was alright but Yata could have gone without Sunshine over here. The name made him snicker out loud.

 

“You are my Sunshine,” he said to the doctor's questioning look when he laughed.

 

The other man's eyes were still blank as he checked Yata's pulse.

 

“Oh come on, everybody knows the song! You are my Sunshine, my only Sunshine?”

 

“I am most assuredly not your sunshine.” He finished his examination and stood up with a slight grimace when he put weight on his feet.

 

Yata watched him go toward the door. “What are you then?”

 

“Pardon?” The doctor looked over his shoulder.

 

“If you don't want me to call you Sunshine then you should give me something else to call you.” He probably should have just let the doctor leave but for all that he was an asshole, he was fun to tease.

 

“This is the end of my rotation with emergency medicine, you won't see me again.”

 

“You never know,” Yata called after him.

 

The doctor clicked his tongue and let the door fall shut behind him. Yata stared at the empty space. A rotation, that sounded like something to do with an internship or a residency maybe. He reclined his head against the pillows. He wondered if the young doctor was always such a dick or if he just didn't care since Yata was his last patient in this department. Surely that kind of attitude reflected poorly on you while you were training, though. He yawned and his body sunk as far into the stiff bed as it could.

 

Either being cooped up in the hospital was making him crazy or another round of drugs was working its way through his system, as he suddenly found his whole situation funny. He had just wanted to get the run over with and go have some food, and he went and got shot. He definitely wasn't going to be getting any of Rikio's smoked ribs while he was in this damned place. Not only did he get shot, but by the gun belonging to the man who taught him to shoot one.

 

Seeing his leg elevated in front of him finally got the best of him. He pushed the blanket back and pulled up the bottom of the papery, mint green gown tied around his body. There was a blot of red showing through the gauze wrapped around his thigh. He ran his finger along the edge, tempted to have a peek. He reluctantly moved his hand away. Sunshine said his bandages were changed right before he woke up, he hated to call someone back in here to change them again just because he wanted to poke and prod at his boo-boo.

 

He chuckled to himself. He kind of hoped he crossed paths with the dark haired man again, if for no other reason than to pester him with the nickname. It was fun to get on people's nerves who were such big assholes to everyone else. Really though, he didn't know why someone with such awful social skills would choose a line of work that revolved around dealing with people. Yata himself wasn't Prince Charming by a long shot, he tended not to think about his words before he said them and a lot of those words were curses but even he was capable of a little common courtesy.

 

There was a knock on the door. He sat as straight up as he could.

 

He wasn't a big enough player in HOMRA for Nagare to send someone to finish him off, right?

 

Even if he did, Yata knew there would be a couple of his own people close by in case he did that very thing.

 

He felt around on either side of him without taking his eyes off the door and wasn't surprised when he couldn't find a blunt object. He settled for resting a finger on the red call button; he didn't want any of the hospital staff to try and get involved, but hearing them coming might spook whoever came in.

 

“Misaki?” said a small voice.

 

His body unwound with a long sigh of relief. He let go of the red button and a silly grin broke across his face. “Hey, Anna.”

 

Her bland surroundings made the girl look even more ethereal. With hair as white as the driven snow and skin almost as fair, she crossed the space between them like an angel descending. Her presence soothed away every trace of his anxiety from a moment earlier. She took his hand in both of her small ones.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

“They have me on some painkillers but the doc said it came out clean, and didn't hit anything major.”

 

She nodded, sending some of her long hair past her shoulders to tickle his arm. “Nagare and Yukari got away.” She must have seen the guilt cross his face, as her hands tightened on his. “We can always flush them out again but if you had bled out, there wouldn't have been another Misaki. Saving you was worth letting them escape.”

 

Anna wasn't the newest member of HOMRA but she was the youngest at a tender fourteen, and that might have been the reason he made an exception for his hatred of his first name when she said it. If Izumo was their brain then Anna was their heart. She could read them all like open books, even Mikoto's bitter ass. It was hard not to feel calm with her and right then, she was a better remedy than any amount of Morphine they could pump into him.

 

“Thanks for coming, Anna.”

 

“Mikoto wanted to come in, too, but that wasn't going to work.”

 

Yata cringed. “Is he mad?”

 

“No, he just got kicked off the grounds for smoking.”

 

“How's Izumo?”

 

She sighed. “He got kicked out for smoking, too.”

 

He chuckled at the thought of the boss and his right hand, above the law and bound by no rules, getting kicked off the property by a couple security guards. It was just ridiculous enough to suit this jacked up night, or day, possibly. He didn't know how long it had been.

 

She smiled, rubbing circles into the top of his hand. “Misaki.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Her smile turned somber, and her fingers went still. “They declared war in that warehouse.”

 

“I know.” He knew better than anyone.

 

“Get better, and get ready. Mikoto has already given the orders. He wants them all dead.”


	2. Guardian

 

Hospital food sucked. By the time he was discharged, he would have sold his kid sister for a pork chop. He signed his release paperwork with an illegible scrawl of ink and took his crutches like a gold medal. They meant he was just a hobble away from freedom. Anna had dropped off a change of clothes for when he was released and he carried his phial in the pocket of shorts that were clean and most importantly didn't have a .22 sized hole in the leg. A nurse insisted on showing him out, probably less out of concern than because it was their job to make sure he had someone to drive him home, but he guessed it was a nice thought either way.

 

The automatic doors gliding open was the best sound he'd heard in days. It wasn't a peaceful summer day so much as just another humid Friday in Queens, but his crowded city was a welcome sight. The smell of fried confections hit his nose and his stomach growled to remind him of the doughnut shop right around the corner. Izumo was probably picking him up, he hoped they could stop somewhere. He couldn't fight a war on an empty stomach.

 

“Do try and stay out of trouble, Mr. Yata.”

 

He looked over at the sound of the deep voice. “Thanks, Doc.”

 

Dr. Munakata was leaning against the high glass panes that made up the outer wall of the hospital. The nurse seemed content to leave him in the presence of a doctor, so Yata thanked her for walking him out and went to stand with the tall man. It felt good to lean on something anyway. He watched half a dozen people depart at the bus stop in front of the hospital, relaxing only when they went their separate ways without incident. To him, every person pulling their sleeve back to look at their watch was reaching for a gun. Every pair of eyes that fell on him was marking him as a target.

 

The bus pulled away and his heart slowed down. He sighed at his own irrationality. Maybe it wasn't unreasonable to be paranoid after what happened, but he couldn't watch everyone on the sidewalk at once and JUNGLE wasn't stupid enough to hit him in broad daylight, on camera, standing right next to someone.

 

Despite knowing this he jumped at the sound of rubber squealing on pavement. At the intersection, a sleek black car drifted the corner and tore down the road in front of him. He had seen too many drive-bys to relax until it was past him with a roar of the engine. He caught a glimpse of four rings and whistled. That was a top of the line Audi, and its owner knew how to drive it.

 

“I see Fushimi has decided to grace us with his presence,” Dr. Munakata said.

 

It made sense that it would be another doctor, with wheels like that. “Somebody you work with?”

 

“A student with a...well funded father.”

 

“Y'know, you could just call him spoiled, I wouldn't report you or anything.”

 

In the light of day Yata could see that it hadn't been the drugs messing with him; the doctor had shocking violet eyes. They were melancholy at the moment and he hoped he hadn't said something wrong. He was never one to lose sleep over offending someone but it only felt right to make an exception for the person (one of the people? Hell if he remembered) who dug a bullet out of him. The doctor's lips turned up but there was little happiness to be had in his smile.

 

Dr. Munakata opened his mouth but whatever he said was lost in the reverberating purr of another engine. Yata knew this one well, and the sound of it had a stupid grin on his face. He stood up as straight as he could on his crutches. The car was loud and distinctive, and everyone in their neighborhood knew who it belonged to.

 

“Hey, boss.”

 

The muscle car pulled to the sidewalk with the top down, letting him see Mikoto lifting a finger from the wheel in greeting. “You ready to get the fuck out of here?”

 

“Am I ever.” Yata turned, and though it took a little shifting on his crutches to be able to balance with one hand, he held out his other one to the doctor. “Thanks for everything. I know it's your job or whatever but still.”

 

Dr. Munakata grasped it and smiled. Before he could speak he was interrupted, this time not by the car but the driver. “So you're the one that dug that bullet out of Yata,” Mikoto said.

 

“Digging is something of an exaggeration, it came out with little hindrance.”

 

Mikoto reached over and pushed the door open for Yata, who slid his crutches behind him before sitting in the passenger's seat. “You still got my thanks for taking care of the kid. If you ever find yourself in Flushing, you should stop by bar HOMRA. I owe you a drink.”

 

“I'll be sure to remember that,” Dr. Munakata said.

 

Yata looked in the side mirror as they pulled away. He could see the wind stirring a few of his own copper locks from under his beanie, and beyond that Dr. Munakata watching them go. He watched the doctor's form shrink until it disappeared before he turned his attention back to the road. Mikoto was a daunting presence in his peripheral vision. He couldn't believe the boss had come himself to pick him up but at the same time he worried about what that meant.

 

Mikoto upshifted and Yata waited for the Mustang to quiet back down before he said, “Look, boss, I'm-”

 

“Shot.”

 

He gaped for a moment at having his long, thought out apology silenced. Mikoto lit a cigarette and took a drag before he continued. “You hesitated and got shot. I ain't gonna be able to teach you a better lesson than that. Besides, I'm a lot more interested in taking down those JUNGLE bastards than reading you the riot act. Take it from somebody who's had a couple rounds put in them, that hole you got will keep you on your toes from now on.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Call me that again and I'll put one in your other leg.”

 

Yata grinned. “Understood.”

 

They put Long Island City in the rearview and got back on their side of town. The closer they got to the bar, the more people took the time to watch the '69 Mustang and its scarlet haired driver pass by. Mikoto didn't fuck with people who didn't fuck with him but he had a reputation for his violent nature. The nickel he had done in Dannemora for second degree arson might have something to do with it.

 

The situation was still not a good one, but he was relieved to have the air cleared with the boss. With the previous tension gone he dared to look over and comment, “I don't think I've ever heard you ask someone to the bar for a drink.”

 

This was only a partial truth, as he _knew_ he had never heard Mikoto offer to buy someone a drink. He was going on a year with HOMRA and many hours spent with the boss but the nature of his interaction with the doctor had been a first that Yata had seen. Asking Mikoto personal questions was a lot like tap dancing on land mines so he wasn't sure that his prying wouldn't get his head knocked forward into the dash but he was curious enough to take that risk.

 

“I got a good feelin' about him. I'm thinking maybe I feel him out, see if he's willing to do some work off the books if we get in another situation like we did this time. Our little pharmacists can only do much.”

 

Yata nodded. They had a guy inside the police department that came along before his time, it was possible that he got the invitation for drinks, too. It wasn't like the boss was much of a flirt.

 

Anna was standing in front of the bar when they pulled up and he didn't even get the door open before she was there. She got his crutches out of the back and helped him onto them with no regard for his embarrassed mumbling that she didn't have to. He stared up at the brick facade of HOMRA for a minute before he went inside. The sight of it was as much of a relief as it was a catalyst to his anxiety. Things were not the same as the night he left for the warehouse run. They were at war, and the bar was their fortress.

 

It was almost worse how normal everything seemed when he walked inside. Izumo was polishing glasses and Rikio was whistling loudly from the small kitchen where they made the limited selection of bar snacks on the menu. Chitose was sitting at the bar with a foot hooked around the stool next to him, where Dewa sat. Mikoto immediately went to the leather couch against the wall, his throne if he ever had one. He dropped down onto the beaten thing and stretched his arms out along the back.

 

“Yata, welcome home!”

 

There was no bracing himself in his current condition so Yata just hoped for the best when Totsuka came rushing toward him. He tried to return his fellow member's embrace but he ended up just letting Totsuka dote on him. Totsuka always seemed a little out of place among the rest of them, with his mocha eyes always full of compassion and his dislike of violence. Not that anyone ever dared mention that. He was Mikoto's old friend just like Izumo and the boss was fiercely protective of them both. Totsuka was a smooth talker, though, and he could pick locks like a fiend.

 

They were all gathered and waiting when Rikio brought out the kabobs. Usually, Yata would have been right there with him in the kitchen, but he could make up for his absence another time. They sat the serving plate between them all and the kabobs began disappearing in a flurry of reaching hands, and a mounting pile of empty wooden sticks. He was glad they were all too hungry to say much. He wanted this one night, this one meal before he had to face what was coming.

 

“You sure you had enough, Riki?” Mikoto asked as the last empty stick hit the table.

 

Rikio grinned and patted his hefty stomach. “You calling me fat, boss?”

 

“You're not fat,” Izumo interjected, ever the peacekeeper. “More like well insulated.”

 

“I bet you're jealous, you skinny shit.”

 

The group dissolved into laughter as the cook and the strategist jokingly squared up to each other. Yata closed his eyes to soak up that sound. _Chink._ Izumo's lighter. The sound raised the hair on his arms, but he heard it only once and then smoke began to waft through the bar. They didn't open to the public for another couple hours so there was no one to complain about the haze of cigarette smoke. He remembered that sound, the much louder one that followed it. He took a deep breath and focused on the present. There might be a war coming but right now they were all together, and whole, and as close to happy as they could be with the threat of JUNGLE bearing down on them.

 

 

 

“Misaki.”

 

He blinked and Anna's dark eyes came into focus. She was holding a glass of water. “The bar will open soon, you might should get up. You also need to take your antibiotic.”

 

He sat up out of the booth he had dozed off in and found the mess from dinner already cleared away. “Right, thanks.”

 

The antibiotic was a damn horse pill but he got it down with a couple long drinks of water. However long he had slept, he must have slept hard. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and his dry throat ached. He would definitely be sticking to over-the-counter stuff for his leg. He didn't like the aftereffects from pain medicine nor did he want to end up like one of the strung out pillheads he often ran into on the street.

 

“Mikoto wants everyone back here in the morning to talk about our next move. In the meantime, Rikio is going to cover the bar for a little while so Izumo can take you home.”

 

Yata eased up onto his crutches that were still leaning against the outside of the booth from earlier. “I don't live far, it's cool.”

 

“I believe he would like to take you home.”

 

“Ah,” he said to her meaningful look.

 

They found Izumo outside, dragging on the last of his cancer stick. Yata sighed and waved smoke out of his face. He was surprised that taking up smoking wasn't part of the HOMRA initiation. A good thing it wasn't, though, since he dissolved into a coughing fit after one draw. He said his goodbyes with Anna before she left to meet her pint sized boyfriend for ramen across the street. Sukuna was a year older than her and kind of a brat, but for some reason Anna was nuts about him. He joined Izumo in watching her cross the street and they only made for Izumo's car once she was safely in the restaurant.

 

Izumo disposed of his cigarette and pushed away from the wall with a sigh. “Got to look after our Princess.”

 

“Heh. I think the Princess can look after herself, the boss made sure of that.” Not that Yata disagreed; he couldn't help but feel protective of her, too.

 

“Let's hope I never find out firsthand. I don't think my pride could withstand getting my butt kicked by a little girl.”

 

Yata would have laughed but he couldn't discredit the idea, not when it came to someone Mikoto had trained himself. He had rarely seen Mikoto unarmed but he knew the boss could fight hand-to-hand just as proficiently as he could with a weapon.

 

The ride to his apartment was quiet, the Lexus canceling out most of the road noise and few words passing between the passengers themselves. He had plenty to say and no idea how to say it. Izumo's expression was unreadable behind his tinted glasses, calm as ever but he had looked that way even in the warehouse. Yata ran a finger along the plastic wristband he still wore. If it had gone differently, one of them might not have been sitting there.

 

“Did Bando make good on his word and spare you the police interview?”

 

Yata looked up from his fiddling to find the car in park, idling in front of his building. “I never talked to any cops, just Doc and Sunshine.”

 

He got a curious look for the nicknames but Izumo continued. “Good, Mikoto called in for him to take care of it, there should be some nice, legitimate paperwork floating around that says you told him you were shot when I mistakenly fired my gun while cleaning it.”

 

“Look, about that.” He gripped the wristband, the hard plastic creating indentions in the pads of his fingers.

 

“I know, right, who would have thought? All my brains and I didn't even check the safety.” He raised a hand to silence Yata when he opened his mouth. “We both messed up in there. Could we have done better, yes, but Iwafune is dead and we're going to get the rest of them, too. We can apologize to each other until the sun goes down but it's not going to put us any closer to exterminating JUNGLE.

 

“You might have gotten a laugh out of it if I was the one hobbling, though. HOMRA would fall to pieces if I was out of commission. Mikoto can't lace his damn boots without me.”

 

Yata grinned. “That's the fucking truth.”

 

A knot of worry unwound and dissipated inside him. The strip of plastic around his wrist didn't seem as heavy anymore. He could handle the coming fight against JUNGLE a whole lot better knowing Izumo still trusted him, and the boss wasn't going to cut him loose. He got out of the car unaided (come on, Izumo, you guys won't be around to babysit me every minute of the day) and made his way to the driver's side. He leaned on one crutch and held his hand out. “No blood.”

 

Izumo took it, and covered them both with his other hand. “No bone.”

 

“No ash,” they said together.

 

His Beretta was in his hand when Izumo pulled away. Yata tucked it into his waistband and stepped back from the car. He didn't have to look back to know the Lexus would still be there until he was inside because that was Izumo: the quick witted second in command, and everyone's freaking mom. He took the elevator up to his floor. He tried to avoid the rickety thing that seemed like it could plunge to the basement at any moment, but his leg was starting to throb.

 

At Izumo's insistence, he had a security system in the apartment just like every other member of HOMRA, but JUNGLE was known for their advanced technology and hacking abilities so he readied his gun the best he could at the door just to be safe. He leaned his crutches on the door frame and gave the apartment a quick sweep, found it empty. He punched in the code on the beeping security panel and cast the room into silence.

 

The apartment was pretty open but he kept the Beretta in hand until he checked the bathroom, the only thing with a door since his bed was on the upper level that could be seen from below. No one was lurking behind the old nylon shower curtain. He set the water running and undressed with a few stumbles and hops when putting weight on his bad leg sent sparks of pain up his whole body. After a struggle, he wore only his tattoo of the HOMRA insignia under his collarbone and the bandages around his thigh.

 

Blood had dried on the gauze and it pulled on his stitches in a way that wasn't exactly painful, but uncomfortable when he removed it. He pulled the handle for the shower and let the water beat down on him. It was bordering on too hot, just the way he liked it.

 

He picked up the bar of soap and his phone blared from the sink. Of course.

 

He looked around the shower curtain down to the counter, where the caller ID said “Mom.” Fuck. She only called when it was important. He made quick work of washing up, gave his hair a quick scrub, and thanked his lucky stars that he had a shower cubicle and didn't have to step over the side of a bathtub to get out. His phone had stopped ringing by the time he wrapped a towel around his waist and dried his hands enough to use the touchscreen. It started ringing again as he picked it up. Impatient old broad.

 

“Misaki, you need to come home right now, it's an emergency!”

 

“Mom, what's wrong? Is someone there?” Images of Nagare flashed through his mind.

 

“It's your brother, he's sick.”

 

Fuck him sideways. “I'm comin', give me half an hour.”

 

He mumbled every expletive he knew and a few he made up on the spot as he put fresh bandages on his leg. Damn hippie was at a loss whenever she couldn't get one of the kids better with an herbal remedy and his step-dad's solution was to let it run its course, whether it was the flu or a fractured arm. His dad had been the one to make sure they all got routine checkups but when he died and she remarried, it all went out the window in favor of vanilla basil tea or whatever the hell she was giving them now.

 

His bike wasn't going to be an option so he grudgingly hailed a cab. He tried to put his damp hair in some kind of order on the ride over but as usual he settled for just pulling his beanie on. All too soon, he was at Crystal, the shop where his mom did palm readings and sold “water pipes.” He gave the cabbie all the singles stuffed in his wallet for a tip and went inside. Like the bar, there was an apartment above her shop, not that it was big enough for a four person family it housed.

 

An iguana peered at him from a large terrarium when he walked in, his mother's doing without a doubt. She was always getting more damn reptiles. He nudged the beaded curtain out of the way with one of his crutches, and found her waving a sprig of herbs tied with twine. “What are you doing?” he asked.

 

“It's sage for purifying. Your brother is being gripped by a terrible malady.” Her auburn curls, brighter than his own copper, swished against her back as she moved around the room.

 

“Mom, I think that's cilantro. Where is Minoru?” he added when his comment went ignored.

 

She pointed with a long nail. “On the mat, where I hold the seances. He feels hot.”

 

The strands of the beaded curtain separating the two areas clinked together as he pushed through it. He found Minoru curled up on the large rug, off to one side of the low table in the middle. “You could have at least put him to bed until I got here.” That, too, went ignored. He sat down and took out the first aid kid he had brought with him, since the only supplies his mother stocked were band-aids on a good day.

 

“Okay, kiddo, let's see what's up,” he said as Minoru pulled himself into a sitting position with visible effort. Even with the jewel-toned velvet curtains that blocked most of the light from outside, Yata could see his skin glisten.

 

“I don't feel good,” he said, and opened his mouth for the thermometer.

 

It dinged soon after, and Yata's eyes widened at the readout. “Holy shit, I bet you don't.”

 

The curtain clinked again as his mother burst through it. “Language, young man!”

 

“Language, my ass! His temperature is a hundred and three degrees, he needs a doctor.”

 

Her lips thinned in concern, but she said, “You know I won't go in one of those filthy places.”

 

“Go wherever you want, I'm taking Minoru to the hospital.”

 

He didn't wait for her to say anything else before he got back on his crutches. Minoru followed, and they got outside without his mother asking once why he was limping. That was for the best. If she did ask, it would be less because she cared than because she wanted to harp about his evil lifestyle. He held the door for Minoru with his shoulder and didn't look back when it fell shut.

 

Putting Minoru on a bus without knowing if he was contagious didn't seem like a good idea, so he hailed yet another cab. At least Minoru was ten and could walk on his own. Yata would have gladly carried him any other time but this one might have been a problem.

 

If he had never seen Mount Sinai Hospital again it would have been too soon, but a cab ride later, there he was.

 

The automatic doors welcomed him like it was a much more pleasant place than it was. He checked them in and sat with Minoru in the pediatric waiting area, obnoxiously bright compared to the white and chrome of the main waiting room. Yata tilted his head back against the mural on the wall. He was pretty sure he was sitting against a giraffe. Minoru leaned against his arm and fell asleep almost immediately, which could have been because he was weakened by the fever or relieved to be away from their crazy ass mom. Either one was understandable.

 

Yata let him rest until they were called to triage to get a better feel for his symptoms. The nurse was way too perky, and Yata wanted to smack her when she asked, “On a scale of one to ten, how bad do you feel?”

 

“Hot.”

 

That became Minoru's answer to most of her questions, and they were moved to an actual room. Minoru sat on the edge of the bed and pulled at his shirt where it stuck to him. Some of his hair was curling at his temples with sweat. Yata wanted to help him, but his limited medical knowledge had been gathered from whatever he read on the back of pill bottles and what a couple drug dealers told him. He had considered taking Minoru to Chitose but with everything going on he didn't think getting his little brother near HOMRA was safe.

 

“The animals painted everywhere make me wanna puke.”

 

Yata nodded from his plastic chair by the bed. “I feel you, kiddo.”

 

On the bright side it was only another fifteen minutes before a doctor came in. Yata had started to doze and he forced his eyes back open when he heard the curtain being moved aside. He readied himself to answer all the same questions he did in triage, and it turned out he was _not_ ready in the least.

 

The doctor was young and tall with just enough hair to be pulled back in a ponytail. Most of his bangs had fallen back out and hung to one side of his face. His expression was too serious for someone in Invader Zim scrubs but he couldn't have been much older than Yata. There was a blurry image floating around Yata's mind, distorted by the stress and exhaustion of that time, but it was starting to take the shape of the man in front of him.

 

“Let's get you taken care of, Mr. Yata,” he said.

 

That voice. It _was_ the same person.

 

He was talking to Minoru, but Yata still sputtered out, “Sunshine?”

 

The light caught three black rings around the top of the doctor's ear as he looked over. Yata tried not to stare at them, they hadn't been visible when the other man's hair was down. Why did he want to stare, anyway? It was just jewelry. It was just jewelry on a normal person, who looked like anyone else and definitely didn't look a whole lot better without the constant haze that had surrounded everything for awhile after Yata woke up in the hospital. Definitely not. Priorities, he reminded himself. He had to reign the gay in.

 

Just like when Yata had called him out for his attitude before, his surprise was visible for an instant before his face became unreadable again. He clicked his tongue and walked over to the bed. “You again. Misaki, I believe.”

 

“Yata,” he said. He hated his girly ass name and Anna was the only one who got to call him that. The doctor enunciated it slowly, like he was taunting him.

 

Sunshine put his stethoscope against Minoru's back and asked him to take a deep breath. He did this in a couple more spots before he put it back around his neck and said, “My patient here is a Yata, as well.”

 

“Yeah, I wanna be Mr. Yata!” Minoru said, and it was hard to be mad when it was the most animated he had been since Yata picked him up.

 

“Misaki it is, then,” he said with a smirk. He fucking _smirked_ like he knew how much Yata disliked his name but how powerless he was to deny his little brother.

 

“Tell me if any of this hurts, okay?” Sunshine said, and began to press lightly at Minoru's throat.

 

Yata watched with folded arms, ready to swoop in at the first sign of the doctor being as much of a dick to kids as he was everyone else. He grinned as he came to a realization. “Looks like I was right, Sunshine.”

 

He didn't get an answer, just an inquisitive sound as the other man noted something on his clipboard.

 

“Told you we would see each other again.” He couldn't keep the smugness out of his voice.

 

Sunshine raised an eyebrow at him. “Ah, yes. How kind are the fates that your brother would get sick so you could see the same student who tended to you after you were shot in the leg. The satisfaction you feel must be overwhelming.”

 

“Oh, look who's got jokes.”

 

“His name isn't Sunshine,” Minoru said, who had apparently found a reserve of energy just for meeting a new person. “It's...hold on.”

 

Yata cringed as he squinted at the doctor's badge. Well, he guessed Sunshine wasn't a full fledged doctor yet, but he acted as one so it was weird to think of him as a student. Minoru mouthed soundlessly as he worked out the name. He was a brilliant kid but his dyslexia sometimes made it hard for him to convert words to sounds if he wasn't familiar with them yet.

 

“Foo...Fooshimmy. That sounds like our iguana's name! He's called Jimi, like Hendrix. He's mean, though, I don't like him. I like you better, Mr. Fooshimmy.”

 

Both of the doctor's eyebrows went up over his glasses. Minoru had big, hopeful eyes fixed on him until he finally sighed and said, “Thanks.”

 

Yata stifled a laugh into the back of his hand. Whatever Sunshine's name was, he didn't think it was that. At least he was being a sport about it. “So how is he looking?”

 

“I'm not qualified to diagnose him without the oversight of the attending doctor.”

 

“Mr. Fooshimmy, where's the bathroom?”

 

“Down the hall and to the right, I can take you if...okay, then.”

 

Minoru hopped off the bed and ran out into the hall. Yata wanted to follow him but he remembered how little he wanted to be babied at that age, so he decided to give him a few minutes before he went to check on him.

 

“How is your leg?”

 

He sat a little straighter in his chair. “Is Sunshine worried about me?”

 

“Tch. Don't flatter yourself, _Misaki._ ”

 

It wasn't fair for such an awful person to have such a nice voice.

 

“I see your people skills don't get any better. There's a hole in my leg, which is pretty weird, but other than that it's okay. I'm glad it hurts some. Reminds me to be grateful I lived, y'know? It could have been a lot worse.”

 

“Perhaps it should remind your friend to be more careful cleaning his firearm next time.”

 

Yata narrowed his eyes. “My friend has beat himself up enough, I'm sure.”

 

He checked the time on his phone. His protective instincts won out and he grabbed his crutches. High fevers were dangerous, Minoru would just have to forgive him for the coddling. He shifted forward on to his good foot and pushed up.

 

“Here.”

 

He almost stumbled back when he found Sunshine suddenly in front of him, holding his crutches still. His less than average height became glaringly obvious as he was forced to tilt his head back to look up at the doctor. Sunshine stared back with a raised eyebrow and Yata realized he probably looked like a deer in the headlights. He dropped his gaze back down and cleared his throat. It had to be the stress making him overreact to everything. As long as he didn't see them as a threat, he usually didn't care about people being in his space.

 

He looked at the badge in front of him. “Fushimi.”

 

The doctor let go of his crutches and stepped back. “Yes. Should I trust I'll no longer be Sunshine, now?”

 

“No promises.”

 

He didn't make it all the way out of the room, as Minoru came back covered in more sweat than when he left. “I just got sick. I think there were some Fruit Loops in it.”

 

“I'm going to get the doctor.”

 

Fushimi's urgency worried Yata but he focused on Minoru, laying him on the head with his head propped up so it would be easier to hang it off the side if he got sick and couldn't make it to the bathroom. True to his word, Fushimi came back with a blond woman minutes later. She had a stunning face and an hourglass figure that wouldn't be out of place on a porn star. In the back of Yata's mind he had to wonder if the hospital had a hidden policy of only hiring attractive people. He couldn't have cared less what she looked like, though, as long as she figured out what was wrong with Minoru.

 

“Vomiting isn't uncommon when a child has a fever,” she said to Fushimi.

 

“It's how high the fever is that I find concerning.”

 

The questions she asked Minoru seemed pretty standard – how many fingers am I holding up, have you left the country recently, does your throat hurt – and decided on taking a blood sample. Yata only went as far from the bed as he had to for her to work.

 

“We're going to get someone from the lab to draw a little blood, they'll be gentle so don't worry,” she told Minoru.

 

He shrunk closer to Yata. “I don't wanna get stuck with a needle.”

 

“I know needles are scary, but I am going to get someone who is very good at it, I promise.” The words were kind but she never lost her firm, no-nonsense tone.

 

“Can Mr. Fooshimmy do it?”

 

The blond doctor's smile softened into something more genuine at the name. She looked over at Fushimi. “I was told you have your phlebotomy license. Go get the tubes and a butterfly needle.”

 

“Ma'am.” It sounded as much like a protest as an agreement, but he left the room nonetheless.

 

Yata rubbed the top of Minoru's head. Most of his hair was tacky from sweat and even through his thick locks Yata could feel the heat radiating from him. His mom had only just noticed something was wrong when she called Yata, probably because she had been doing a palm reading or the like, but he wondered how long this had been going on. Minoru could only say a little while, he wasn't sure. He had been alone in the apartment upstairs until their mom went to check on him and found him burning up.

 

“Fushimi is a third year medical student but he is licensed to draw blood and skilled at it, so rest assured your brother is in good hands,” the woman said.

 

Yata smoothed Minoru's hair. “Whatever makes him comfortable. He hates needles, so if he's okay with it this way then go for it.”

 

A few more locks of hair had fallen out of Fushimi's ponytail by the time he got back. He then placed his equipment on a tray next to the bed. Minoru tensed under Yata's hand watching him, eyes bleary but focused on Fushimi's movements and on the sealed plastic pack that held the needle. Fushimi washed and dried his hands, and pulled gloves on before he continued his preparations. Yata took a little reassurance from the way Fushimi's latex clad fingers sped through the process as though he had done it a hundred times.

 

“I'm going to tie this around your arm and it's going to feel tight, but it won't hurt,” he said, holding up a strip of blue rubber.

 

Minoru sniffed. “I can handle it.”

 

The blond doctor smiled at his bravado, and soon Fushimi was uncapping the needle. “Can you close your eyes take a deep breath for me?”

 

Minoru did as he was asked and it might have been the most trust Yata had ever seen him put in a stranger, especially one with such a cold demeanor.

 

“Exhale.” Blood began to rush through the line and into a plastic tube. “Good. You can open them now.”

 

“I didn't even feel it!” Minoru cried, staring at the blue wings of the needle inserted into the crook of his arm.

 

“A lot of the discomfort we feel when pierced with a needle is because we hold our breath,” Fushimi said.

 

“You were very brave,” the doctor added.

 

Minoru, as flushed and miserable as he looked, smiled. Yata found himself smiling as well. He didn't understand why his brother was so at ease with Fushimi, who hadn't spoken to him in more than a flat monotone from word one, but the kid had never met someone he couldn't see the best in. That trait might get him in trouble later but right now Yata was glad he had it.

 

He had wanted to stay close to Minoru while he got his blood taken but his leg was protesting how long he had been upright. He moved back to the hard plastic chair and leaned his crutches against the wall next to him.

 

“I'll take these to the lab, Dr. Awashima,” Fushimi said.

 

“Do that and call it a night. I'll handle things from here, I believe it's the end of your call.”

 

He disposed of his gloves and washed his hands again. Minoru reached out as though to say goodbye, but a panicked look crossed his face as soon as he moved. He jumped off the bed with his hands over his mouth and ran past Fushimi out of the room, calling out between his fingers that he was fine and he would be right back. A crease appeared between Fushimi's eyebrows as he watched him go.

 

Yata watched him gather the collection phials. “Aren't you gonna at least wait and let him say goodbye?”

 

“Dr. Awashima will discuss his care with you and a nurse will handle his discharge. More often than not, fevers dissipate before blood samples come back. A couple days of ibuprofen and fluids will probably have him back to normal.”

 

“Thanks a lot, Sunshine,” Yata muttered to his back as he pushed the curtain aside. If Fushimi heard him he didn't acknowledge him.

 

Dr. Awashima sighed and gave him an apologetic smile. “Fushimi's biggest shortcoming is his attitude but he happens to be very gifted. As for your little brother, I suspect the possibility of Salmonella being involved. Nothing he says he's eaten recently have a high chance of being contaminated so he probably picked it up it from the reptile he mentioned, if that's in fact what's causing his symptoms.

 

“He hasn't left the country recently so he isn't at risk from anything serious. His stomach will be upset for a couple days so I'm going to prescribe anti-diarrheals. Salmonella isn't pleasant but it does clear up on its own most of the time, as do most things that would be causing his current symptoms. We will get the lab results back in three to five days and let you know what we found but I feel that he'll be better by then. If his symptoms persist we'll consider antibiotics.”

 

“Let me guess, fluids and ibuprofen in the meantime?” he asked flatly.

 

“Yes. The nurse will go over dosage and what to expect in the next one to two days. Don't worry, Mr. Yata. Your little brother will be just fine.”

 

He nodded. “Thanks.”

 

Minoru came back from the bathroom looking pale and more than a little disappointed that Mr. Fooshimmy wasn't coming back, but he perked up at the mention of getting to leave soon. A nurse in Scooby Doo scrubs came to sign them out and give Yata a handy sheet on safe dosage of ibuprofen based on weight.

 

“Well, kiddo, looks like we're going to both be popping ibuprofen for awhile,” he said..

 

“Mr. Fooshimmy said you got shot. How did you get happen?” Minoru asked.

 

Yata laughed without much humor as they passed through the sliding glass doors to the front entrance. “It's a long story.”

 

“Sounds like a gangster thing.”

 

The glow of the EMERGENCY sign above them tinted Minoru red in the twilight. Yata watched the approaching cab with indecision. His mom didn't believe in any medicine that wasn't herbal or spiritual so Minoru wouldn't get any better if he stayed with her. He was hesitant to have his little brother around with the fight against JUNGLE looming close, but those master hackers could just as easily find out where his family lived and seek them out if Nagare wanted to target them. His place would be more secure than Crystal, anyway, and he could make sure Minoru got the care he needed.

 

“How about I call Mom and see if you can stay over for a couple days?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick disclaimer here! I just want to say that the stereotypical "hippie" portrayal of Yata's mom is not meant to be offensive or disrespectful toward users of herbal remedies and/or spiritualists. It's a story element, not a personal opinion and I wanted to clarify that (:
> 
> Thank you for reading! xo


	3. Gasoline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bumped the rating up (no smexy times yet, sorry) for all the cursing and violence, I figured it couldn't hurt. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! xo

 

“We don't know where they run the computers out of because they- Izu, what the shit do they do again? Fluff it?”

 

“They spoof the IP address to keep us from getting a lock on it. I'm not bad with a computer but I'm not on their level, I'll admit that,” Izumo said.

 

Mikoto huffed. “We can't let them go to ground. We may have a lot of unanswered questions, like why they deliberately sacrificed one of their own or what they hoped to accomplish by throwing the gauntlet down and then running, but we know this much – they came for blood, _our_ blood. We ain't gonna let the bastards live.”

 

There was a murmur of agreement throughout the group that Izumo cut through with a swipe of infuriating logic. “That's great and all but that doesn't help us find them.”

 

Yata shared a worried look with Tatara as Mikoto glared at the strategist. He couldn't imagine shutting down the boss like that. Anna, who had been tracing the grains in the dark hardwood with the toe of her shoe, spoke up. “Sukuna is a master with computers, and you know he wants in.”

 

“I'm not putting colors on a punk like him,” Mikoto said.

 

Her expression was calm as ever but Yata thought he saw the beginning of frustration in her eyes. “You put them on me.”

 

“That was different. I don't have to justify my reasons to you or anyone else. Sukuna is just a lovestruck schoolboy that wants to join up so he can be part of your world.”

 

“He could help us,” she said with a tense but level voice.

 

“I think his concern is that Sukuna wouldn't be joining out of loyalty to HOMRA, but to you,” Tatara said from where he sat on a bar stool, legs crossed at the ankle.

 

The glass ashtray rattled on the bar as Izumo forcefully stubbed his cigarette out. “We need a plan that doesn't hinge on a high school student. Thank you for the suggestion, Anna, but this is too precarious a time to be depending on a potential new member.”

 

Tatara spread his hands. “Couldn't we try to get a message to them and see if they want to surrender before anyone else is hurt?”

 

“No,” Mikoto and Izumo said.

 

“If we could get a message to them we would know where they are, and the fuckers would be dead by now,” Yata said.

 

Izumo's flaxen hair fell forward as he took his glasses off to clean them. It was more a habit than anything, as far as Yata could tell. They never looked dirty when he took them off. “The best lead we have is Yukari's apartment. I sent Dewa and Chitose to scout it but with Yukari's skills we aren't going to be able to really tell if it's a trap until it's too late.”

 

“Then we hit it from a distance,” Mikoto said.

 

Anna sat up a straighter. “Wait until he's home and get him with a sniper round through the window?”

 

Mikoto rolled an unlit cigarette between his fingers. “Torch it.”

 

“No,” Tatara and Izumo said.

 

“Bando being inside the PD isn't going to make a difference if you start burning things down again, the chief of police would love to put you back in for arson,” Tatara said.

 

Izumo flattened his palms on the bar and leaned across, glasses forgotten next to the ashtray. “Tatara's right. We've managed to keep our noses pretty clean since you got out, but the chief sees smoke and he's coming for your head.”

 

“Let him come. Let JUNGLE come, too. We'll burn them all.”

 

The silence that fell over the room spoke louder than any threat. Most of them shared a variation of the same look of defeat, as they knew that tone. Mikoto had made up his mind. The traffic outside was the only sound for awhile. Mikoto's gold eyes were alive with excitement and Yata could only assume he was seeing the boss as he was before he joined, before Mikoto did his time in prison. There was a feral edge to his gaze as he watched the cigarette pass between his fingers.

 

Izumo lowered his head. “I believe we can call this meeting concluded.”

 

 

 

He was still seeing the mad gleam in Mikoto's eyes when he put dinner on the table that night. Minoru's favorite, stir-fry with pineapple. He had gone easy on sauce or seasoning since the kid's stomach was still torn up. His fever was staying higher than Yata liked, too, but he was at least trying to eat. His dinner table also happened to be his coffee table but he didn't entertain enough people to need more than that. Plus his couch was way more comfy than a stiff chair, threadbare though it may be with the red material fading into a weird pink in the areas where the sun got to it.

 

Minoru ate one piece of pineapple before he wrapped his arms around his stomach. “I'm sorry. It tastes good but-”

 

“Hey, don't worry about it. You tried.”

 

Yata didn't have much an appetite, either. He wanted to bring JUNGLE down as much as the next person if not more but it wasn't worth it if they lost Mikoto. He was the whole reason Yata took an interest in HOMRA. He had been spending more and more time away from home when he crossed paths with the red haired man, and everything just fell into place. Mikoto had given him more than a gang to join, he had given him a family. He felt guilty for the thought as he looked at his brother but his mom and siblings just hadn't needed him after she got remarried. They were nuts about her new husband, and Yata, well, _wasn't._

 

A knock on the door shattered his reverie and had his fork clattering to his plate. It was a hard, fast knock, nothing like anyone from HOMRA. They had found him. JUNGLE was there to finish what they started, they had to be. He stood up and waved Minoru down the hall. “Go, and remember what I told you.”

 

Minoru nodded and went to lock himself in the bathroom. It had to be some scary shit for a kid, but Yata had figured it better to have a plan in case of something like this than just wing it when the time came. He was glad he had done it, now that he was hearing the second knock on the apartment door.

 

He took his Beretta out (he didn't know what was more sad, that he kept it on his person in his own house or that it was looking like the measure might have been necessary) and approached the door from an angle. He wasn't looking to get shot through the door as soon as someone heard footsteps. Pain shot from his leg up his spine but he made himself ignore it. He couldn't use crutches and be in a stance to shoot at the same time.

 

This had to be the only apartment that didn't have a peephole, for fuck's sake. Izumo really should have insisted on one of those while he was going ham on making everyone get security systems. He flipped the lock and pulled the door open as fast as he could, gun readied in front of him. He returned to a two handed grip as soon as the door was open.

 

Most people put their hands up or scream when they find a gun pointed at them.

 

They don't usually look at the gun, then further down to its owner because they happened to be clad only in a pair of jersey shorts, and smirk in appreciation like a lethal weapon wasn't in their face.

 

Fushimi didn't seem to be most people.

 

His eyes traveled back up to the gun as slowly as they left it, lingering on Yata's naked upper body long enough to make him wish he was wearing a shirt. “Interesting way to answer the door. You need to get your brother and come with me to the hospital.”

 

Yata lowered the gun and turned the safety back on. “Why the fuck would I do that? And how do you know where I live?”

 

Fushimi stepped into the apartment, put his hand around the barrel of the gun and pushed it to the side. “I accessed your patient file.”

 

A torrent of sensations hit Yata as the student stepped closer (into his goddamn apartment like he owned it) and he was hit with the smell of coffee and whatever Fushimi washed his hair with. It wasn't unpleasant; he actually smelled good, nothing like the constant scent of antiseptic Yata assumed clung to doctors when they weren't at the hospital. That was what bothered him. This cocky shit had grabbed a _loaded gun_ and was standing so close that Yata knew what he smelled like.

 

Fushimi's eyes lowered again and Yata was reminded of his bare chest. He wasn't particularly insecure, he might be short but he was muscular enough. Nothing special but nothing to be embarrassed about, either. He just didn't like the way he was being stared at when the person looking was a relative fucking stranger who strode into his apartment uninvited.

 

“Where did the iguana come from?”

 

Yata startled out of his thoughts and blinked. “Huh?”

 

“Minoru said he had an iguana, that Dr. Awashima thinks he contracted a Salmonella infection from. Where was the iguana purchased?”

 

Yata thought back to the conversation he had with his mom when he had called to tell her he was going to keep Minoru for a couple days, and once he listened to her lecture that he better not be swaying his little brother toward his evil lifestyle, he explained how he probably got sick. She had shouted about how that wasn't possible, how much she paid for that lizard from - “The Carribean, a client came back from the Carribean with it and sold it to her, charged her a small fortune because of how much it cost to have it-”

 

A vice grip around his forearm shocked him into silence. Fushimi's appraising stare had sharpened into something more demanding. “Is Minoru here with you? If he is, get him. We need to get him back to the hospital.”

 

This guy was giving him whiplash. He briefly considered the danger of letting Fushimi any further into the apartment but if the student was part of JUNGLE he would have disarmed Yata when he grabbed the gun. He looked down at the pale fingers around his arm. With his injury, Fushimi could have easily gained the upper hand with a grip like that if he wanted to.

 

He tucked the gun back into his waistband. “I'll go get him...or you can just come with me, I guess,” he added when Fushimi followed him.

 

He knocked on the bathroom door. “Hey. Pineapple.”

 

“What an odd nickname for a child,” Fushimi said.

 

“It's the password, I told him not to open the door unless I gave him the password. Mino, open up, it's me! Everything's okay.”

 

There was a low groan from inside. He tried the doorknob without expecting any luck, as Minoru had done just as he was told and locked it. He was already limping without his crutches, there was no way he could get enough leverage to force it open with his shoulder.

 

“Mino?” he called.

 

He was answered with a horrible retching sound.

 

“Move,” Fushimi said.

 

It seemed to be more of a formality than anything since he was already in motion. Yata stepped back the best he could before Fushimi's leg arced up and his foot connected with the door, right above the lock. It flew open and hit the bathroom wall.

 

He didn't waste time asking why the hell a med student could do that, as was met with the sight of Minoru slumped against the toilet and the vomit in the bowl was streaked through with blood. Yata put a hand against his forehead to find it cool. He grabbed a washcloth off the counter and wiped his face, Minoru watching him all the while with watery eyes. He was glad to find that Minoru's clothes were tacky from sweat but otherwise clean.

 

“Wash your hands,” Fushimi said before the washcloth had hit the bottom of the plastic laundry hamper.

 

Yata threw a warning look behind him. “I will in a minute, right now I need to take care of him.”

 

“If I'm right then he could be carrying something dangerous and highly contagious, wash your hands before you risk spreading it any further.” The haughty impatience in Fushimi's voice seemed amplified in the cramped space.

 

“I've got to carry him downstairs anyway, he doesn't look like he's in any shape to walk on his own.” Minoru's eyes had fixed on the side of the sink and Yata wondered if he was aware of anything that was going on.

 

“Neither are you. Wash your hands.”

 

Fushimi maneuvered around him to crouch in front of Minoru and took gloves from the pocket of his scrubs. As much as Yata wanted to punch him in the throat and silence his smart mouth for awhile, Fushimi was right about that one. Minoru wasn't small anymore, Yata wouldn't be able to carry him and keep weight off his leg, too. He felt like he could grin and bear the pain but if his leg decided to go out then he would be adding even more discomfort to his brother's ill state. He waited for the water to run hot and scrubbed with a few pumps of the handsoap up to his elbows.

 

He grabbed his t-shirt off the towel rack and pulled it over his head while Fushimi hooked the straps of a mask around Minoru's ears. The other man's presence in his apartment was still baffling. Fushimi stood up holding Minoru, and Yata finally had to ask, “Since when do med students make house calls?”

 

“Since it occurred to me he could have something highly contagious and posed the risk of an outbreak. Let's go, I'll drive.” He left no room for argument as he walked out of the bathroom and back across the apartment but given the circumstances, Yata guessed he was glad they weren't wasting time.

 

He stuck his feet into the worn Vans by the door and locked it behind him as they left. He had gotten good enough with the crutches to mostly keep pace with Fushimi's long strides down the hallway. Looking at the man walking just ahead of him, he figured Fushimi must have already been scheduled to be at the hospital since he was dressed in scrubs and all of his hair hadn't fallen out of his ponytail yet. Regardless the whole thing was weird as hell, he thought, punching the down arrow on the wall and watching it light up orange. He glanced at Minoru when they got on the elevator but his brother's eyes were half lidded and glazed. His labored breaths felt deafening on the otherwise quiet ride down to the ground floor.

 

“I thought it was a Salmonella infection,” Yata said as they walked out of the building.

 

Fushimi shifted Minoru to one arm and took his keys out of his pocket. Yata watched every move, not entirely comfortable with someone else carrying his brother but he was low on options. “It still is but I believe he's infected with a more uncommon subspecies of Salmonella bacteria. Uncommon here in the United States, that is.”

 

A pair of headlights flashed from the curb and Yata stopped in his tracks. Even from the side, without being able to see the emblem, he recognized the car at first sight. That lean, low body belonged to the Audi R8. The city lights became distorted patches of color in the glossy, almost reflective black paint. There was no way a student should be able to afford that; he knew plenty of adults who weren't hurting for money that still couldn't touch something with that kind of price tag. Warning bells sounded in the back of his mind.

 

“How did you get that?”

 

_JUNGLE could be paying him off._

 

“It was a birthday present, not that it's any of your business.”

 

Yata hesitated at the door Fushimi had opened for him. The answer had come quick but not defensively, if anything he just sounded bored. The shape of the 92 was still a reassuring weight against Yata's back. He got in the sports car, and traded Fushimi his crutches for Minoru. With a few spins of the bolts, Fushimi had taken them apart and stored them in the trunk at the front of the car.

 

The engine purred beautifully as Fushimi pulled into the road. Yata held Minoru in his lap, arms around his waist in place of a seatbelt. He had just started to relax when he saw Fushimi's foot go to the clutch and the car roared into the next gear. He wove through a cluster of slower traffic and shifted up again. Yata pressed himself back against the seat, grip tightening on Minoru.

 

Mikoto's driving had conditioned him against the fear of a car crash, as he was at the risk of that whenever the boss was behind the wheel, but Minoru being in the car did make him a little antsy. He watched buildings fly past and didn't dare look at the red hand he knew was ticking steadily upward.

 

He had never found himself watching the boss drive, though, the way his eyes kept straying from the window to the driver. Fushimi handled the car like an extension of himself. He drove with one hand on the wheel and the other on his knee, fingers tapping and ready to move to the shifter. From the side Yata could see his eyes behind his glasses and they were a startling blue in the sunlight but there was nothing to be read from them.

 

“What is this bacteria you're so worried about and what does it mean for Minoru if he's infected with it?” He hated to talk about Minoru like he wasn't there but the kid was in no shape to take part in the conversation, if he was conscious of it happening at all.

 

Fushimi shifted down as they approached a traffic light. “Salmonella typhi. Dr. Awashima ruled it out because Minoru hasn't left the country recently, or ever.”

 

“But not you.”

 

“Minoru doesn't like the lizard, he said as much. If it's aggressive then he likely avoids contact with it and I doubt his parents would let him clean the cage since iguanas have sharp teeth and claws. We ruled out most other ways he could have contracted Salmonella or deemed them unlikely, at the very least.”

 

Yata was fascinated despite himself. It seemed the medical mystery of his brother was the only thing that prompted Fushimi to utter more than a couple words at a time. His voice was still lacked any kind of emotion but his interest in the subject showed through in the amount of thought he had put into it. Fushimi turned left, and Yata recognized some of the buildings as being near the hospital.

 

“I think the person who sold your mother the lizard might have had typhoid fever.”

 

“That...sounds bad.” He wished he had an intelligent answer but he had no idea what that was.

 

“It's especially dangerous for children, never mind the prospect of an outbreak. Early detection is vital. That's why you're here.”

 

He parked in front of emergency and went inside, to return a moment later he returned with a wheelchair. Yata opened the door and carefully handed Minoru off to him. Minoru groped at Fushimi's ID badge, mumbling incoherently. He was shivering in the wheelchair. Fushimi put Yata's crutches back together and held them still outside the car door. Yata's ears burned as he pushed up onto them. He would be glad when the damn hole in his leg healed up enough to walk unaided, not only did he need to be ready when they moved on Yukari's apartment but he was tired of needing help all the time.

 

Fushimi pushed the wheelchair right through the waiting room, through the doors to triage and then to a set of double doors. He scanned his badge and, after a beep that confirmed his clearance, they opened to a wide hallway. Yata looked around as he followed behind him. They weren't in the pediatric center where Minoru had first been treated.

 

“Where is Dr. Munakata?” Fushimi asked the nurse's station as he pulled a plastic cup from the dispenser next to the water jug and filled it. He put it in Minoru's hands and let go once the boy had a grip on it.

 

The man there gave him a skeptical look. “I thought you were doing your rotation with pediatrics.”

 

“I need a blood test ordered and I don't have time for Dr. Awashima to question me. Get me Dr. Munakata,” he said, narrowing his eyes. Yata gaped at the exchange. He was brazen, to be a student and making demands. Minoru, at least, seemed to have livened up a bit at the taste of water. He had finished half the cup already.

 

The nurse stood up looking ready for an argument but his eyes lighted on something over Fushimi's shoulder and he sunk back down into his chair. “Doctor,” he greeted, albeit petulantly.

 

“Daiki,” responded a cordial voice.

 

Yata turned on his crutches at the familiar timbre. As he thought, Dr. Munakata was standing behind them. He waved awkwardly. “Hey, Doc. I wish I could say long time no see.”

 

“How is your injury, Mr. Yata?”

 

“I'm making it. I'm not here for me, though.”

 

Dr. Munakata looked at Fushimi. “Did you follow someone through the doors?” The way Fushimi looked away must have indicated a negative, as Dr. Munakata sighed and said, “I told you not to manually change your access code. However, you can incur my lecture another day. What brings you here with such a handsome but, at the moment, ghastly young man?”

 

Fushimi explained to the doctor what he had told Yata in the car in low tones – to keep anyone from panicking at the mention of something as contagious as the kind of fever he thought Minoru had, if Yata were to guess. Dr. Munakata was attentive as he spoke and he wore a smile that looked almost fond in spite of his obvious exasperation with Fushimi's rule breaking.

 

“I can take the blood sample,” Fushimi persisted when the doctor didn't say anything.

 

“Very well, I'll order it, but if it comes back negative and Seri finds out you brought her patient back in for no reason then don't come to me for protection.”

 

“Tch. I can take care of myself.”

 

Dr. Munakata chuckled. “I'm certain that you can. Off you go, then, take him to the drawing lab.”

 

“Thanks for this, Doc,” Yata said when he realized Fushimi was just going to leave without another word.

 

“Fushimi's tenacity can be challenging but he has keen instincts, and I trust him. Don't fear for your younger brother. If he does in fact have typhoid, it's early enough that antibiotics will fix him right up. Speaking of which, I hope you have been taking yours as prescribed?”

 

Yata was sure he laughed too loudly to be believable. “Oh, yeah, all the time. They're great. I better go be with Minoru.”

 

He caught up with Fushimi and they got on the elevator. Minoru was asleep in the wheelchair, panicking Yata for a minute since he had been awake just a couple minutes ago, but his chest rose and fell evenly.

 

Fushimi checked in with the lab and they went back. There were chairs designated for drawing blood, and Minoru stirred as he was moved to one of them. He became more alert at the sight of the package holding the needle. Yata put a hand on one of his tense shoulders.

 

“This is just like last time, you won't feel anything,” Fushimi said.

 

He went through the same preparations as last time and Yata kept a reassuring hand in place as Fushimi readied the needle. In his weakened state Minoru seemed to have a renewed hatred for them. “Don't wanna,” he said.

 

“Remember what I told you. Deep breath, exhale on three.”

 

Minoru breathed in, though it was shaky, and blew it out as the needle pierced his skin. He stared at the ceiling to avoid the sight of it. Yata squeezed his shoulder. “You did awesome, Mino.”

 

“Can I go to sleep now?”

 

Yata looked over to see if Fushimi was going to need anything else, and smiled at his brother once the student nodded his assent. “Go for it.”

 

Minoru went right back to his wheelchair and dropped his head back. He at least seemed more lucid after periods of rest, and the Doc had said he would be fine if they put hm on antibiotics. “How long 'til we get the results back?” he asked.

 

“Within forty-eight hours. Sit.” Fushimi finished washing his hands and dried them off.

 

“What, why?”

 

“Your turn. Anyone else who has been in contact with him should get tested as well.”

 

Yata sat in the chair and put his arm out. Needles didn't bother him, as the insignia under his collarbone proved. Fushimi donned a new pair of gloves and prepped a bigger needle that didn't have the blue wings on the side. The piece of rubber he tied around Yata's arm felt like it would snap if he moved the wrong way. He was close again, the smell of coffee mingling with the sterile scent of the lab.

 

“Where are your veins?” he murmured to himself, running a thumb down Yata's arm.

 

There was a little pressure behind the touch and Yata hoped he couldn't see the way it made the hairs on his arm stand up. “I still don't completely get it.”

 

“The veins supply-”

 

“Not that, smartass. I mean why you didn't just call and recommend that Minoru came back in for further testing. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful, but why did you care so much?”

 

The question might have offended anyone else, but Fushimi was calm when he met Yata's eyes. “It wasn't because I cared. I just had to know if I was right.”

 

“Heh. Whatever you say, Sunshine.”

 

Yata had thought his answer to be part honesty and stemmed partly from his compulsion to get a rise out of people, and his suspicions were confirmed when a crease appeared between Fushimi's eyebrows at his lack of reaction. He dropped his gaze back to Yata's arm. If anything, the implication that he might care seemed to have peeved him more than the opposite.

 

“You can try drinking some water, that might help. Or I can take it from somewhere else.”

 

“Like where?”

 

Fushimi picked his hand up and placed his thumb on top of it. Yata had wider palms but the student's fingers were long and rested at the soft pulse point on the underside of his wrist. The gesture was so much like holding hands that Yata stared for a minute before he realized Fushimi was tapping a particular place on top of his hand. “You have a good vein here.”

 

“I guess that's as good a place as any.”

 

The student moved his thumb to the side but didn't let go of his hand otherwise. “You must not care for needles, either.”

 

“I don't mind them, Minoru is really the only one in the family with that problem. You can go ahead,” he added when Fushimi raised the needle in question.

 

There was little more than a pinch when Fushimi inserted the needle. “Interesting.”

 

“Why's that?”

 

Fushimi looked at him over the top of his glasses and smirked. “Because your heartbeat is erratic, Misaki.”

 

Yata cursed the needle in the top of his hand for keeping him from pulling away. He didn't know how to answer that.

 

_I was shot a few days ago. That shit is stressful, you know?_

 

That was one of the problems but not the entirety of them.

 

_Antibiotics or not, my brother could have some rare infection, and so could the rest of my family for that matter. Like I needed anything else to worry about._

 

Fushimi capped the collection tube and removed the needle. He put a band-aid on Yata's hand, smoothing it with his thumbs. He still wore his smug imitation of a smile.

 

_My gang is going to torch as much of this city as necessary to bring down JUNGLE, and I don't have time to be this damn interested in someone. Plus you're kind of a dick._

 

He pulled his hand away and grabbed his crutches where they were leaning next to the chair. Fushimi stepped back as though he had heard every one of Yata's unspoken words. He didn't look offended by the sharp withdraw of Yata's hand. Instead, he watched the shorter man with curiosity and an expression Yata could only liken to satisfaction. He thought back to Fushimi's earlier words _I had to know if I was right._ Yata was starting to think everyone was a puzzle to him, a mental exercise like crosswords and Sudoku. He also didn't believe Fushimi was as heartless as he pretended to be.

 

“I better get Minoru home, and talk my mom into getting the rest of them tested, especially my sister. She's younger than Minoru.”

 

“I'll walk you out. I need to move my car from in front of the emergency room entrance, anyway.”

 

Now that the wait had begun for the results, the trip back to the entrance felt far longer than when they came in. He could feel the prickle of fatigue behind his eyes and deep in his muscles. They went through the automatic doors to find the sky had gone dark, leaving the city in a harsh, artificial glow.

 

“Keep him as isolated as possible,” Fushimi said.

 

“That's the plan.” He cleared his throat and toed a crack in the sidewalk. “I know you said you just wanted to know, or whatever, but thank you. I don't care what your reasons were if it means he's going to be okay.”

 

Fushimi's eyes flicked down to Minoru, whose skin glistened with sweat where he slept in the wheelchair. He made a vague sound of acknowledgment and Yata continued, “You should let me thank you for real sometime.”

 

“Oh, is Misaki asking me on a date?”

 

Yata's face flamed. “What, no! I just meant I should buy you dinner or drinks or whatever to say thanks, don't let it go to your head.”

 

He didn't have to look over; he could _feel_ Fushimi smirking. He really wasn't asking him on a date, he had too much going on already without adding to it. There was just an old-fashioned streak in him that felt like there was a debt to be paid for what Fushimi did, his supposed motives be damned.

 

Yata finally glanced to the side as an ambulance passed them on the way to the emergency vehicle bay and painted Fushimi's face with a myriad of red and blue. Part of him wished he had left it with a verbal expression of gratitude but Fushimi's actions might have saved his brother's life. From what he had been hearing about this typhoid fever, it could easily become life threatening to a child. That wasn't something he could take lightly.

 

“My call starts soon,” Fushimi said, taking his keys out.

 

“I hope you don't get in too much trouble with that doctor who's over you.” He scratched the back of his head, thinking back to the stern woman who had seen to them the night before.

 

Fushimi opened the car door and looked over his shoulder. “You say trouble like it's a bad thing.”

 

The R8 roared to life and he knew that was the last he was hearing out of Fushimi for the night when the student closed the door and pealed away from the entrance. Minoru glared at the rapidly fading taillights, having been woken up by the noise. Yata followed his gaze until the car drifted the corner toward what he guessed was staff parking.

 

Yata stared at the empty space in front of them, the black impressions of tire treads where Fushimi had burned rubber. _This is the end of my rotation with emergency medicine,_ he had said.

 

_You won't see me again._

 

His vision unfocused for a second and rather than the asphalt he saw Fushimi in his doorway, felt a surprisingly strong hand wrap around his forearm. Coffee and shampoo. Three black rings dancing in the light. He could still feel that touch as though it was pulling him closer, creating an unstable gravity between them. His own words echoed, taunting, in his mind. _You never know._

 


	4. Gravity

“So why are we doing this again?” Tatara asked.

 

“Yashiro is as powerful of an information broker in Manhattan as I am here. He owes me a favor for getting his Black Dog out of Japan, and Yukari lives right in the middle of his stomping grounds,” Izumo said from the front.

 

Yata leaned forward. “Hakumai-to is only made up of three people last time I heard, how much stomping can they do?”

 

Mikoto took a sharp turn, pitching him back against the seat where he rode with Tatara on the other end and Anna between them. The Mustang wasn't ideal for group outings but telling Mikoto not to drive was about as effective as telling him not to smoke, and possibly the only thing more dangerous than his driving itself.

 

“Think about this in regards to Hakumai-to: there's only three of them, and they hold their territory nearly unopposed. I don't know how they hold up to the rumors but they have a reputation that makes most people weary of crossing them,” Izumo said.

 

Anna cleared her throat, and Mikoto threw her a glance of acknowledgment before giving his attention back to the road. “Yeah, what is it?”

 

“I don't mean to speak out of turn, but last time we had dealings with another gang who we didn't believe was a rival, Misaki got shot.”

 

Tatara and Yata's heads both whipped toward her. There was plenty of banter to be had among HOMRA but no one questioned a decision made by both the boss and his second man. The only sound that answered her was that of wind rushing through the car as Mikoto rolled the windows down and lit a cigarette. Anna waited, unyielding. Yata was sitting diagonally behind the boss and watched him for a reaction, but the sun filtering through the framework of the bridge threw too many shadows on his face to read it.

 

“Well, Anna-” Tatara started, but Mikoto raised a hand and silenced him.

 

“We didn't go into that warehouse thinking us and JUNGLE were going to start a goddamn book club. It turned bad when we let our guard down because it looked like they were gonna split and everyone was going to go home happy. We're not making the same mistake again. Anything else, Princess?” he asked sharply.

 

“No, sir.”

 

Yata shared a look of relief with Tatara over her head as they got off the bridge and hit Manhattan pavement. He turned his attention to the window, to the buildings that kept getting taller and the streets busier. After being hospitalized in Mount Sinai he couldn't help but think Long Island City was like a smaller version of Manhattan; not quite a mirror image so much as a fragment of the mirror if it was broken. He wondered how long it would be before it became as overpopulated and bustling as Manhattan itself. He had a soft spot for Long Island City after the days in the hospital of having nothing but his view from the window to pass the time. Save his one visit from Anna, the city had kept him company in a way.

 

Tatara gazed admiringly at their surroundings. “The Upper East Side, huh?”

 

“Hakumai-to has deep pockets,” Izumo said, though he didn't seem as impressed.

 

Mikoto took a long draw on his cigarette. “Buncha rich pansies.”

 

Yata could see the top of Izumo's head move as he looked at the boss. “You're just sawed off because they have so much money for there to only be three of them.”

 

“Well, Izu, maybe if we had more money we could get you something better than that plinker you call a gun.”

 

_I don't know, I think that plinker does alright,_ Yata thought, rubbing his leg.

 

“Big talk for someone that won't let go of their Spray n' Pray,” Izumo said.

 

Tatara whistled and muttered under his breath, “Shots fired.”

 

“I can fuckin' here you, Tats. The Mac is modded to hell and back, it doesn't jam like the base model bullshit.”

 

“Defensive,” Izumo and Tatara said.

 

Yata stifled laughter into his fingers. He was already the newest and the one who got himself shot, he didn't need to take his chances with pissing Mikoto off. His school buddies were doing a great job of that already. Tatara got pitched into the door as Mikoto made a hard turn into the parking garage, and Yata knew from the chuckle up front that it wasn't an accident.

 

The restored Mustang was far from out of place among other cars in the garage with high price tags and some that were likely higher. _Fushimi's car would fit right in here, too. I wonder if he lives around here._ It was odd to think of Fushimi anywhere besides the hospital but, as easy as it would be to believe with all the time he seemed to spend there, he couldn't always be on call.

 

The sound of the car doors closing echoed through the garage. He took his crutches out of the trunk and braced himself for the long, unpleasant limp to the apartments across the street. His thoughts drifted to his attempt to warn his mom last night, after Minoru and him got home from the hospital. She said his evil life was corrupting his mind and making him paranoid. _Technically it's a hot med student who's paranoid, but better safe than one of my kid siblings be sorry, right?_ He had settled for hanging up and calling his stepdad, who agreed to get Megumi checked out if for no other reason than so Yata would “quit his fussing.”

 

With the parking garage at their backs and standing on the sidewalk, the building seemed to loom even higher. Mikoto begrudgingly put his cigarette out in the disposal by the door. Barely visible over the fur collar of his coat, Yata could see the tic in his jaw. He felt like the boss would rather reduce the building to embers than go play nice with Hakumai-to. There was no animosity that Yata knew of, as their territories were plenty far apart from each other, but he also hadn't seen JUNGLE as more than a few crazy techies from College Point until one of them shot him.

 

Tatara fell in step with Mikoto when they entered the building. “Izumo and Yashiro are on civil terms, so don't we look a little aggressive, all five of us coming in like this?”

 

“Yeah, Tats. Nothing says 'I've come for blood' like three senior members to match their own, plus a little girl and a kid on crutches. If I wanted the tactical advantage I woulda left Hobbles at home.”

 

Yata bit back his indignation and turned his attention to the vaulted ceilings, accented with ornately carved molding. The whole first floor seemed to be dedicated to amenities with a coffee bar, a gym, and signs to follow for a pool, and those were just the things he saw on their way to the elevator. The mirrored doors opened with a chime and he was glad to find the cab empty.

 

The numbers ticked up as they ascended. Looked like they were going all the way to the top. It figured that these guys would be in the penthouse.

 

Izumo stepped off first. “Yashiro said to come in and make ourselves at home.”

 

“Sounds like it could be a trap,” Tatara said, tapping the ends of his fingers together.

 

“No need to worry about that. Yashiro loves his home, you're in more danger of getting stabbed for not taking your shoes off at the door than of getting blown up.”

 

Mikoto started to go past him before the serious tone registered and he sighed. “You're for real about the shoes.”

 

Izumo answered by stepping out of his dress shoes, and Mikoto rolled his eyes but bent to unlace his red Tims nonetheless. The rest of them followed suit and Yata became painfully aware of the eyes on him as he struggled with the task. Izumo clapped his shoulder and almost knocked him off balance.

 

“I'm sure he'll make an exception for you. Come on, they're probably towards the back.”

 

His crutches met the tile floor with uncomfortably loud _clacks_ that echoed through the apartment. What little furniture it had was sleek and simple in its cool tones and contemporary design, calling more attention to the rolls of silk that hung on the wall, decorated with hand painted calligraphy. A light but earthy scent lingered in the open space that he knew from cooking experience to be jasmine. There was a more potent floral scent, too, that had Yata's eyes widening when he found the source of it.

 

In the middle of it all was a spiral staircase of brushed silver, winding up around the potted cherry tree that stood taller than any one of them. Anna stroked the petals of a blossom as she passed by. The tree seemed to be the true centerpiece of the room, with everything else accommodating its flourishing branches. Yata found the penthouse to have a surreal quality that made him feel as though he had stopped being in Manhattan as soon as he entered; not because it was like another place in particular, it just gave the unshakable impression of being somewhere _else._

 

“Friends!”

 

He looked up to the high pitched voice and the whirlwind coming down the stairs. She came to a halt at the bottom with a bounce of her pink tresses. Her appearance was so sudden that his hand instinctively released one of his crutches to go for his gun, but no sooner than he moved did he feel the tip of something cold press against the side of his neck. He glanced over to a man with long hair as dark as the ink on the wall scrolls, giving him a warning look from the other end of the katana he held to Yata's throat.

 

“It's alright, Kuroh. She just startled him.” The soft but commanding voice slowed the flurry of hands that had started to reach for weapons.

 

Kuroh sheathed his sword and went to the side of the man who had just emerged from the back of the apartment. The girl went to his other side, and Yata knew the man who had spoken could only be Yashiro. Unless they did an excellent job of hiding their age, they were surprisingly young. Yata didn't think a one of them could be older than his own twenty.

 

“Mr. Kusanagi, it's good to see you again and Mr. Suoh, I'm glad we could be acquainted,” Yashiro said, and extended a hand.

 

Mikoto stared him down long and hard. That look could send most people running for their mommies, but Yashiro met it with a kind, open smile. Yata noticed the occasional twitch of Kuroh's hand, constantly ready to draw his sword. He knew from the unique trait of carrying a katana that Kuroh had to be the mercenary known as the Black Dog, a judging force in the criminal underground who only accepted contracts for people he thought were deserving of death.

 

The boss must have found what he was searching for in Yashiro's eyes, as he grasped the shorter man's hand and nodded back to him. Yashiro turned toward what Yata assumed was the kitchen. “Let's all sit down and talk over tea.”

 

Introductions were made as they walked and Yata found out the excitable girl's name was Neko, or at least that's what they called her. Kuroh began making tea and his feet were as sure in the kitchen as his hand was on a sword. For all her faults, Yata's mom had been the one to teach him to cook, and there was no mistaking someone who was at home in the kitchen. He found himself a little curious about some of the exotic looking ingredients that grew fresh in a window box above the sink.

 

“There's a lot of valuables in this apartment, never mind what some of your competition would pay for your head. I'm surprised you haven't wanted to take our weapons,” Mikoto said.

 

Yashiro laughed. “I'm not worried about that. Kuroh would cut any one of your hands off before you could line up a shot. However, I would like to sit down and have a nice talk without any bloodshed. We aren't your enemy.”

 

“We know who is, though, and that's why we're here,” Izumo said.

 

Yata's phone began to vibrate against his leg. He slid it out just enough to peer at the screen, but he didn't recognize the number. Izumo noticed and leaned over to look. “Area code is Long Island City, might be the hospital. Go ahead and take it.”

 

“You're welcome to the balcony if you would like some peace and quiet,” Yashiro said, having overheard. He pointed to the sliding glass doors off the living room.

 

“Thank you.” He threw a quick glance at Mikoto, who nodded and waved him off, and swiped to answer as he left the kitchen. “Yo.”

 

“Tsk. Aren't you the articulate one.”

 

He shifted the phone between his ear and shoulder to free a hand for the door. “Fushimi.”

 

“Minoru tested positive for typhoid fever. Dr. Awashima wants him admitted for his recovery to be monitored while he is on antibiotics.”

 

The words raised goosebumps on his arms even as he stepped into the July day. He leaned heavily against the balcony railing, thinking he might have needed the support even without his injured leg. The roaring voices and car horns below had become a dull hum. He had read up on typhoid fever after getting Minoru home from the hospital and, knowing just how bad it could get and how fast, he would have taken a round in the other leg if it meant Minoru would be okay.

 

“What are his chances?”

 

“It's not chance any longer, we know now. He tested positive.”

 

Yata gripped the railing, ignoring how hot it had become under the sun. “No, I mean his chances of living.”

 

“Weren't you listening last night? Early detection is key. Bring him to us so we can keep him hydrated and make sure the antibiotics are doing their job, and he'll be fine.”

 

“Our stepdad picked him up this morning since I was going to be out. I'll have him bring Minoru.”

 

“That would be advisable.”

 

Yata dared to draw his first relieved breath since the phone rang. “I'll give him this number if he has any questions. Will this one take him straight to pediatrics?”

 

“It will take him straight to me, don't give him this number. He can look Mount Sinai Queens up online like everyone else.”

 

“Your people skills are shit.”

 

There was a raspy sound that he guessed was the closest thing Fushimi got to a laugh. “So you've told me.”

 

He was starting to sweat, especially where his hoodie tied around his waist and trapped the heat against his lower back. “People skills or not, it turns out your hunch was right. How does that feel?”

 

“Common.”

 

“You're a fucking piece of work.”

 

“I'm a fucking piece of work you want to take to dinner. My call ends at midnight, call me if you're still awake.”

 

Yata wasn't even surprised to hear the phone beep, telling him Fushimi hung up. He wiped the perspiration that had gathered on the screen. Hearing Fushimi curse made him wonder if he was the vocal type, how the word would sound forced out of his throat, breathless.

 

Shit. Wherever that thought came from, it needed to go back.

 

He tapped the contact for his stepdad, thankful for once to be calling him as there was nothing less arousing than talking to his parents. The thought didn't just surprise him because it was about Fushimi, it was the nature of the thought in general. He knew he was attracted to men but he was just as content taking care of himself. Not having a sex life to speak of didn't bother him, it always seemed like more trouble that it was worth and raised too big a risk that he would get attached. He wasn't looking for that to happen. Fushimi, though, made him _want._

 

“Yata?”

 

He blinked, trying to think of what his stepdad had been saying and coming up blank. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

 

The sigh on the other end of the line told him he wasn't fooling anyone. “I just said your mother thinks one of your gangster buddies contracted typhoid fever by smuggling cocaine in from a secluded island and that's how Minoru got it.”

 

“Oh, then no. That's bad.”

 

“I'm glad you're taking us as seriously as ever. I'll be sure to tell your brother how much of a joke you think this is.”

 

“Well good, maybe while you're doing that, my gangster buddies can smuggle in some fucks for me to give about your opinion.”

 

He hung up and pushed away from the railing, supported once more by his crutches. Balancing to open the sliding glass door was easier the second time around. He was surprised to hear laughter as he approached the kitchen. He found Tatara cracking up and Yashiro making wide gestures as he spoke. Even Izumo was snickering into the back of his hand.

 

“So then I pulled the sword out of my umbrella and said no, _you_ sit down.”

 

Anna was at the window, listening to Neko tell her about the plants growing there. That left Mikoto, leaning in the wide doorway, looking like he would have gladly flung himself off the balcony Yata had just been on if he didn't have to listen to any more stories. He visibly perked up at the sight of Yata coming toward him. Yata stopped and leaned over, only for a red Timberland boot to strike him in the ankle and knock him off balance, forcing him to step down on his bad leg.

 

“Ow!”

 

“Damn, looks like the kid's leg is bothering him. I guess we better pack it up. Sorry to cut it short, Shiro, thanks for the information.”

 

Yata grimaced as they said their goodbyes with Hakumai-to and made for the elevator. Yashiro waved from the doorway like the least threatening man Yata could imagine, even if he knew the opposite was true. It was hard to forget with the Black Dog's stare following them until the elevator doors closed. Mikoto was smirking when Yata looked over at him on the way down. Cold blooded bastard.

 

 

 

Anna bumped his knee on the way back to the bar. “Misaki, is your brother going to be okay?”

 

“Yeah, he probably had a close call but he'll be alright. Did we get anything worthwhile off our visit to Yashiro?”

 

Tatara leaned around Anna to answer, “We hit a goldmine. Yukari and Kuroh trained under the same man. Their teacher is dead now but Kuroh keeps tabs on Yukari, so thanks to him we know Yukari is out of the country doing some shady deal on behalf of JUNGLE but he'll be back before the end of summer.”

 

“Damn. Having the location of his apartment isn't helping us much right now, then. I think the idea of burning it down was for him to be in it.”

 

“Shit yeah it was,” Mikoto said from up front.

 

“That will be a major play against JUNGLE,” Izumo said. “We can use this time to our advantage to start whittling away at them, strip away some of the pawns before we go for bigger pieces on the board. With Yukari on the other side of the ocean and Iwafune dead, Nagare will be laying low. They obviously meant to provoke us that night in the warehouse, let's figure out why. There is a lot of work to be done before Yukari gets back.

 

“In the meantime, Yata, you feel like lending a hand in the kitchen tonight?”

 

“You should know by now the answer to that is always yes.”

 

 

 

The evening found Yata on a rolling stool, pushing himself around with his good foot. He could have believed he was in a brewery, with the smell wafting from the friers where Rikio's beer battered fish was sizzling away. Yata's appetite had come back around since he found out that while Minoru was in bad shape, he was still going to be okay, and he wanted to eat every plate of food that passed by him. The fish was the best thing he had smelled since a heaping pile of spare ribs went out earlier.

 

He lifted the basket from the frier and heard the thrum of acoustic guitar strings. Totsuka's voice carried right into the kitchen as even the rowdier patrons had quieted down to hear him sing. Izumo came through the doorway that led from the bar to the kitchen with a towel over his shoulder.

 

“No one can sing along and drink at the same time, I think I'm off the hook for a few minutes.”

 

Yata chuckled. “Everyone comes here on Friday nights to make a jackass of themselves and get plastered, I think you might be underestimating their ability to do both.”

 

“It's almost ten, most of them are already there.”

 

He dropped the newly filled basket back in the frier a little too fast and rolled away from the popping oil. “Ten already?”

 

“You sound excited, I thought you liked working the kitchen,” Izumo said, stealing a pickle chip from Rikio before he could roll it in breading.

 

Yata tapped his foot against the side of the stool. He hadn't told anyone about Fushimi. Not that there was anything to say, since he was going to buy him dinner and they were both going to go about their lives. He just didn't want the questions and the jokes. They would probably make some big deal out of it since he hadn't been on a date (and wasn't going on one now, not that they would believe that) since he joined HOMRA.

 

“Just surprised, it didn't feel that late already.” He kept his eyes trained on the timer in front of him, knowing he would falter under Izumo's penetrating gaze.

 

“Knock off about eleven, by then we're gonna see a lot more drink than food orders.”

 

“Gotcha.”

 

By some miracle he was left in peace for the rest of the night. The last hour flew by in a rush of chicken wings and tediously arranged loaded nachos. Totsuka was asleep on the couch by the time he emerged from the kitchen, and the boss sat taking shots with Izumo, looking perturbed to have his spot taken but unwilling to wake Totsuka up to move him. Yata had no idea how he slept through the noise from the other patrons but he guessed when you made as much noise as Totsuka himself, you got used to it.

 

“You got a date?”

 

The boss' voice stopped him in his tracks. He looked over as Mikoto threw back another shot, his prison ink visible on his forearm with his jacket hanging on the back of the stool. Yata laughed but even to his own ears it sounded tinny and fake.

 

“Just going to meet up with a friend.”

 

Mikoto sat the glass down with a clink. “You ain't got friends.”

 

Okay, harsh but true. Yata moved closer so he didn't have to shout to be heard. “It's a doctor from the hospital, if it wasn't for him I probably wouldn't have known how sick Minoru was until it was too late. I feel like I owe him dinner, at least.”

 

“A doctor, huh?”

 

“Here we go,” Izumo sighed.

 

Mikoto leaned closer with a flush on his cheeks and Yata wondered how long he had been taking those shots. “You talking about that snack in the glasses?”

 

“I guess?” He tried to think of when the boss and Fushimi could have crossed paths.

 

“Tall, dark hair, or so I'm told,” Izumo said, and Yata nodded.

 

Mikoto made a pleased sound in the back of his throat. “Those freaky ass purple eyes.”

 

The image of Fushimi that had been forming from their description fell apart. He sputtered through a few attempts at speech before he managed to ask, “Doc?”

 

“So we're talking about two different people,” Izumo said.

 

Yata scratched the back of his head. “Seems that way.”

 

“At least you and Mikoto won't have to share, then.”

 

“Even if it was the same person, it's not a date. I'm just saying thanks. It's not, though, so please stop glaring at me like that, boss.”

 

He got a grunt in response and took his leave before he could end up in any more awkward conversations. The sidewalk was a welcome change from the crowded bar until the openness began to press down on him. There was the slightest breeze, enough to take him back to the warehouse, to see a flash of silver and the cement turning red. The feeling pissed him off. He shouldn't be feeling vulnerable on his own turf, in HOMRA's territory.

 

It felt like hours before he could see the looming shape of his apartment building. Some of his anxiety lifted once he was inside. It was still present, flaring up every time he passed a window or heard footsteps, but it wasn't at the forefront of his mind. He unlocked the apartment and disengaged the security panel. It was eerily quiet without Minoru there. He was surprised by how quickly he had gotten used to his little brother's presence. It was better for there to be space between them and the shitstorm of violence coming for HOMRA but he did miss the kid.

 

He grabbed a change of clothes from the pile of clean but unfolded laundry in the armchair and went to take a shower. It was a fast one as the balancing act required to shower was tiring. He dried his lower body first and sat on the closed lid of the toilet with his first aid kit. It was a small enough space that he could prop his foot on the wall across from him, and he kept it there as he wrapped his thigh. He could probably put a bandage on the hole in the front and a larger one in the back, over the incision they made to retrieve the bullet from where it had changed course and lodged in the muscle, but it was easier to just wrap his thigh in gauze. The more coverage the better to keep him from clawing at his stitches.

 

He had grabbed the first two things that looked somewhat like they matched, which turned out to be army green cargo pants and a tank top that used to have a band logo. It was too old to tell which one anymore. He pulled on some boxers, his clothes, and made a few passes over his hair with a towel. Fuck it, good enough.

 

Aided by his crutches, he went out to the living room to grab his checkered skate shoes. They had been nice shoes about three years ago when he was still skateboarding, before he wore them to death. He hung on to them more out of nostalgia than anything. His couch creaked in protest as he pulled them on.

 

He wiped away the moisture that had gathered on his phone while he showered and tapped the screen; 12:06 AM.

 

He stared at his call history. It seemed eager to call so soon after midnight, but he didn't know where Fushimi lived and he probably wouldn't want to go back out after he got home. He pressed the phone icon next to the unsaved number with a Long Island City area code and put it to his ear.

 

It rang three times before he heard, “Misaki.”

 

Yata shivered. “Hey. Hospital cut you loose yet?”

 

“I'm sitting in my car.”

 

“Hao Chi here in Flushing is good, if you like Chinese food.”

 

“I'll put it in my navigator.”

 

His phone beeped in his ear and he sighed. He guessed he shouldn't have expected much different. Fushimi didn't sound happy about the prospect of dinner, but he could have been ecstatic for all Yata knew since the range of his voice seemed to exist in the space between bored and condescending. He pushed himself on to his crutches; he was only a couple blocks from the restaurant but having experienced Fushimi's lead foot, he doubted it would take the student long to get there. As an afterthought, he added Fushimi to his contacts on the walk.

 

He was glad the Izumo or the boss wasn't outside for a smoke break when he got to the restaurant, as it was right across from the bar. Mikoto was probably too far into that bottle of Johnny Walker Black to make it outside. He threw a hand up to the hostess and went straight to his favorite table. Hao Chi had been there since before Izumo opened the bar, and they had always had a solid understanding: the restaurant looked the other way if anything suspicious was going on at the bar, and HOMRA took care of anyone who came to Hao Chi causing trouble.

 

The waitress had just brought him a chilled glass bottle of soda when he heard the engine. Headlights glanced off the front windows as the Audi parked smoothly between two other vehicles on the street. Yata took a gulp of his drink. Fixed on the empty space in front of him, he reminded himself this was a one time thing, it didn't matter if it didn't go well. It was just something he felt like he needed to do.

 

“At least wait until I'm sitting there to start staring.”

 

Fushimi slid into the other chair and Yata was saved from replying when the waitress came to take his drink order. He was glad since if Fushimi had wanted to tease him more, Yata couldn't have denied that he really was staring like an idiot. He hadn't considered that Fushimi would have a change of clothes at the hospital. He hadn't paid much attention to his pants but what had his eye was the black shirt, a couple sizes too big and hanging off one shoulder, holding his gaze captive with an expanse of fair skin.

 

The waitress left them with their menus and he made himself look back up at Fushimi's face, framed as it was with black hair that tried to lay down but still curled away from his head in a few places. His ponytail holder slid down his wrist as he picked the menu up. Yata grimaced, realizing there wasn't a part of Fushimi he _didn't_ enjoy looking at.

 

“How do you like your rotation with pediatrics?” he asked, knowing it was small talk but figuring it was as good a place as any to start making conversation.

 

“I'm only doing it out of obligation, I've already chosen my field and applied to do my residency under Reisi.” Noticing Yata's questioning look, he added, “Dr. Munakata, the attending trauma surgeon.”

 

“Heh. My boss would be jealous that you're on a first name basis with Doc.”

 

Fushimi closed his menu and sat it down. “Your boss would be Mikoto Suoh.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“I saw the tattoo when you were in the hospital and everyone knows who HOMRA's leader is. Unless I'm wrong about that being your gang's seal on your chest, that is.”

 

The waitress returned to take their orders. She didn't ask Yata since he always got the pineapple chicken stir fry, giving him a moment to study Fushimi while he ordered. There was no sign of either disdain or interest when he talked about the gang. He seemed indifferent, but he always seemed that way and surely that wasn't the case all the time. He didn't realize his hand had gone unconsciously to his chest until his fingers curled around the edge of his tank top.

 

“I guess this is weird for you, then. Doctor's are all about 'first do no harm,' right?”

 

Fushimi raised his bare shoulder in a shrug. “I'm only doing this to shut my father up. He's paying for all of it, and as long as I stay in school he leaves me alone. He wants me to have a lucrative career worthy of a Fushimi.” He echoed the last words with the flatness of someone who had heard them many times.

 

There were people that spiraled into debt trying to get through college but Yata held his tongue since this was the closest he'd gotten to a real conversation yet. It wasn't much of a thank you dinner if he called Fushimi an entitled brat. Which reminded him, “So Fushimi is your last name. What's your first?”

 

“One thing hasn't changed since you were admitted with that gunshot wound, you still ask a lot of questions.”

 

“You know mine, fair's fair.”

 

“Saruhiko.”

 

“Saruhiko,” Yata repeated, and Fushimi's lips curled into a smirk.

 

“I like the way you say my name.”

 

The words, said as slow and soft as a promise, sent a chill down his back.

 

He looked down at his drink but he could feel Fushimi's eyes on him and fumbled for a change of subject. “My stepdad brought Minoru in, right?”

 

“Yes, he's on antibiotics and a fluid drip.”

 

Yata had never been happier to see a waitress approaching him. The service was always quick and thank god tonight was no exception. She sat his food and Fushimi's pork lo mein in front of them and, after confirming they didn't need anything else, left them alone at the table again. At least now he had a valid excuse not to be talking. Holding a conversation with Fushimi wasn't as impossible as he thought it would be, but the direction it seemed to be going in made him uneasy.

 

He stabbed a chunk of pineapple and a piece of chicken on his fork and looked out the window. From this one he couldn't see the bar but he imagined the crowd was thinning as last call approached. Izumo didn't stay open especially late, unlike many of the late night and even twenty-four hour restaurants in the area including Hao Chi. He barely finished chewing before he went for another bite. With a plate of food in front of him, his hunger reawakened with a vengeance.

 

“When did they start putting mushrooms in this?” he muttered to himself. He didn't mind, but it was a first.

 

Then another one hit his plate, followed by a sliver of onion. He looked up from his plate to find Fushimi sifting through his food, using a fork and knife to pick up each vegetable he found and put it on Yata's plate instead. He didn't look up until Yata couldn't hold back his laughter at Fushimi's unwavering concentration.

 

“What?”

 

“What do you mean, what? Why are you practicing your surgical skills on those poor noodles?”

 

Fushimi looked from him to the plate, and back at him as though the answer should be obvious. “I don't like vegetables.”

 

“You're a _doctor_.”

 

Rather than answer him, Fushimi dropped a piece of bell pepper on Yata's plate with a defiant eyebrow raised. Yata dissolved into laughter again, almost into hysterics when Fushimi gave him a peeved look for his reaction. If he had been able to form a sentence he would have taken back what he said; Fushimi wasn't a doctor, he was just an overgrown five year-old.

 

Fushimi started eating as soon as he had cleared his plate of the offending vegetables. Yata's hunger won out over his amusement and he finally stopped laughing enough to eat again. His stir fry wasn't half bad with all the extras mixed in.

 

Maybe it was the lemongrass candles that burned on the partitions between sections of tables, or the roll-up bamboo blinds that were down on every other window, but Hao Chi felt too warm and intimate to be an all-hours Chinese joint in the heart of Flushing. He could also attribute it to the yellow light coming from the lanterns above them that was just low enough to soften everything it touched.

 

With both their plates empty, Fushimi looked like he was in one of falling asleep at the table. Yata got the check from the waitress the next time he saw her and passed her his card.

 

“I should let you get home and rest. Thanks for coming out, though. And thanks for everything.” He took his card back when the waitress returned and stuck it in his wallet.

 

Fushimi stood up as he reached for his crutches, and even though Yata was expecting it, his heart still beat a little faster when Fushimi entered his space to hold them. He gave a nervous laugh. “Guess there's a little bit of doctor in you, after all.”

 

He got situated on the crutches but it was a long moment before Fushimi let go. Their proximity forced him to tilt his head back to look up. Fushimi's eyes were roaming his face like he was looking for something. “Did you drive?” Fushimi asked.

 

“I'm not quite up to that yet,” he said, staring at the edge of Fushimi's collarbone, wondering how such an innocuous part of his body could be so attractive.

 

“I didn't think so. I'll take you home.”

 

“Okay.”

 

He had every intention to say no because he was only a couple blocks away, but he still found himself following Fushimi out to his car. The space inside felt too small. Last time he was in the Audi it was with Minoru and his mind had been preoccupied with his brother's safety. Now it was just them, and it smelled like leather and coffee.

 

“That's HOMRA's base, then,” Fushimi noted, looking at the bar across the street.

 

_Why would he want to know?_ It was more of a deduction than a question, though, and it wasn't uncommon knowledge around Flushing. He nodded. “Yeah, our second owns it. I help out in the kitchen sometimes.”

 

Fushimi didn't say anything else as they went through the two traffic lights on the way to his place. It would have been an easy opening to take if he wanted to know more about the gang. _He doesn't care,_ Yata reminded himself, cursing his paranoia.

 

He looked over when the car came to a stop. Fushimi was damnably unreadable. His eyes flicked over to Yata but there was no emotion in them that Yata could pick out, making him feel less like he was being looked at and more like he was being observed. He didn't know why he was still in the car. He had done what he wanted, he could move on with a clean conscience. It had to be one in the morning or later. They both had sleep to get and lives to go on with.

 

Knowing someone with medical knowledge could come in handy for the gang, he decided. That was why he was hesitant for them to go their separate ways.That sounded like a good excuse to make to himself. He looked to Fushimi again but the street lamps reflecting off his glasses obscured his eyes. “So. This was kind of not bad.”

 

An exasperated sigh. “Misaki.”

 

“Hey, I'm not saying make a regular thing of it, just like a semi-regular, maybe occasional-”

 

“Misaki.”

 

“Let me finish before you say-”

 

Those reflected lights were suddenly close and Fushimi's fingers were on his lips. Fushimi leaned in, letting his fingers slip away until only the pad of his thumb rested on Yata's bottom lip.Yata leaned into the touch. He could feel the faint tickle of Fushimi's exhalations on his face and he could swear they were getting warmer, _closer._

 

He reached out with unsteady hands only to grasp at air. He didn't remember closing his eyes, but he had to open them again when his brain caught up to his thundering heart. Fushimi had returned to his seat with only his thumb still commanding Yata's silence where it pressed against his lips.

 

"Misaki," Fushimi said again. "Shut up."

  


He didn't, couldn't take a full breath until Fushimi's hand fell away. He jumped at a quiet popping sound and his cheeks burned when he saw the hood of the car open. Right, his crutches. He fumbled for the door handle. He had to get out of there before he was dragged under by the waves breaking over his resolve, dark and turbulent.

  


His leg throbbed in protest when he stood up. He paused on the sidewalk with his hand on the door, and leaned down to peer inside. He made a few false starts at a goodbye that were silenced when Fushimi clicked his tongue and dismissed his efforts with a wave of his hand.

  


“I'll call you,” Fushimi said.

  


Yata huffed but there was a note of finality in Fushimi's voice. The sound of the door closing rung in his ears in time with his heartbeat that had yet to slow down. He grabbed his crutches, closed the hood and stepped back again on to the sidewalk. He couldn't see into the car for the tinted windows but he watched it go, anyway, until it was a fading pair of lights.

  


He stood there with his disassembled crutches and a much bigger problem than the steadily increasing ache in his thigh. His words didn't return to him until after the car was gone and he was staring at the intersection it had long been absent from.

  


“Well, shit.”

  


  



	5. Gallows

He woke up wanting to claw his leg off. It wasn't quite bad enough alone to wake him up, he had the trilling of his alarm to thank for that, but it still fucking sucked. He swiped his phone to dismiss the alarm. If only it was that easy to make his leg stop itching, a feeling that had slowly been outweighing pain as it healed. He kicked the blankets off and pushed his sweatpants down. Usually he would just sleep in his boxers during the summer but he had found out the hard way if he didn't wear something to prevent it, he would wake up with blood under his nails and irritated wounds from scratching them during the night.

 

The skin beneath the stitches was dark but clean. He couldn't see the incision on the back of his thigh but he expected it to look about the same, if not better since it was opened with a scalpel instead of a bullet. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and tested his weight on them. Still didn't feel great, he didn't think he was ready to abandon his crutches altogether but he could feel the difference. His leg probably would have buckled if he had tried that right after he got out of the hospital.

 

The stairs leading up to the open upper level of the apartment where his bedroom was had certainly been an obstacle since he came home. He had mastered them now, getting up and down even with the awkward use of his crutches. He rifled through the pantry until he found a bag of coffee and some crumpled filters. His coffee maker made a few garbled sounds before coming to life and he heard the telltale bubbling of water from the back. He didn't drink a lot of coffee or caffeine in general but he'd woken up with a taste for it.

 

He got dressed while the coffee pot filled up and sat on the couch to enjoy his brew for a few minutes. He watched the end of the morning news, careful not to grasp his mug too hard; it was his favorite and the handle had been glued back on more times than he could count. Too soon, the news ended and he knew it had to be about nine o'clock.

 

Izumo was waiting when he got downstairs. It was humid as all hell outside, the worst kind of day to be going to the docks. At least he could enjoy the frigid air conditioning in the Lexus while it lasted.

 

They weren't even off his block before the interrogation started.

 

“How did your not date go?” Izumo asked, and though his face was blank Yata could _hear_ the shit eating grin he was concealing.

 

He didn't have half the skill he would need to deceive Izumo. He didn't bother, just groaned and ran his hands down his face. “He's such a dick.”

 

“Lucky for you that you don't have to see him again, then.”

 

“That's the thing, I want to see him again.”

 

Izumo shook his head. “You're a glutton for punishment. I've never seen you show interest in a relationship, what's different with this guy?”

 

“Fuck if I know.” The asphalt got bumpier as they turned onto the service road for the docks. “Maybe it's because he's such an asshole, I kind of want to know what he's like under all that crap.”

 

“And by crap you mean clothes.”

 

Yata couldn't have been happier for their arrival at the docks to force the conversation to end. He grabbed his crutches out of the back and looked around. With the dock under construction and not allowing large or commercial charters, it was oddly desolate. Only a couple recreational vessels sat on the water. 

 

Izumo had backed up to one of the piers and a man was already waiting at the end. Age had stripped most of the color from his hair, leaving a few black strands that stuck out from under his bandana. His skin was a deep caramel and lined from exposure to the same sun that had likely faded the anchor tattoo on his muscular bicep. Yata didn't need Izumo's genius to know this man had spent his life on the water.

 

The man nodded to the crate sitting between them. “Look good?” he asked with an unfamiliar accent.

 

Izumo didn't lift the lid. “Hai, hai. Arigatou.”

 

Yata didn't have a second language but he thought Izumo had spoken in Japanese, which he assumed was where the other man's accent belonged to as well. He looked out over the water as the two made small talk. The dock was more open than he liked but in that same respect it lacked places to hide. JUNGLE's best bet would be a long range attack from the shipping containers stacked quite a ways further down, but most of their members excelled in technology more than combat. The only person he could see being proficient as a sniper was Yukari who was out of the country.

 

The two men said their goodbyes and Yata threw an awkward hand up as Izumo lifted the crate. It was usually Izumo and the boss doing pick-ups on the docks so he had never met this guy before. He followed Izumo back to the car and watched him slide the crate into the trunk. There were too many stamps on the wood for him to know where it came from. Half of them probably weren't real to begin with.

 

“We're leaving without checking it?” he asked.

 

Izumo closed the trunk. “I've been dealing with Koji since Mikoto got out of Dannemora, he's stand up. In a way we have him to thank for the intel we got from Hakumai-to since he's the one who helped me get the Black Dog back onto American soil.”

 

In the passenger seat, Yata looked at the smuggler from the sideview mirror. The miniature of Koji reflected in the glass was sitting on a lounge chair aboard his boat, basking in the sun. He continued to shrink as they pulled away until they turned on to the main road and he disappeared. Yata faced ahead again.

 

Izumo had yet to pick their earlier conversation back up but it was still on Yata's mind. He traced the edge of his seat, following the stitched pattern in the cloth. It was easy to imagine it as leather instead. He could feel the cool touch of Fushimi's finger pressing against his lips. His hand curled into a fist against the seat. _Misaki, shut up._ He didn't bother lying to himself; if Fushimi had kissed him, he wouldn't have stopped him.

 

Thinking about it was just going to distract him, though, and he could do that on his own time. He took advantage of the half hour ride to the boss' place to clear his head. It was a nice apartment that would be a lot nicer without the laundry strewn across the floor and multiple ashtrays overflowing, but he'd heard Izumo lecture Mikoto on his housekeeping enough times to know the state of the place was never going to change. Yata was just glad it was on the bottom of the two stories that made up the small complex.

 

“I'm coming in,” Izumo called, unlocking the door. He punched a number into the blinking keypad for the security system.

 

There was a groan from the corner of the studio apartment and Yata saw a head of artificially bright hair lift from the pillows. Mikoto was sprawled on his stomach in nothing but his CK briefs (label whore, Yata thought to himself) and his wristwatch. He glared over his shoulder at the sound of Izumo dropping the crate on the floor.

 

“You fuckin' mind?” he growled.

 

“I told you to slow down last night, don't blame me because you're hungover.”

 

Mikoto didn't grace him with a response, just gave him a final glare before he went staggering to the bathroom. He came back out after a minute and dug in his discarded coat on the floor for his cigarettes. Izumo was already holding out his lighter when Mikoto stood up, and Mikoto leaned in to the flame. He straightened up once the paper began to blacken and curl away from the end of his cigarette. Mikoto ignored the crate in favor of going over to stand by the window and blow smoke against the glass; there could have been a SWAT team at the door and he wouldn't have given a shit until he had his first cigarette of the day.

 

Yata leaned on the arm of the recliner and watched the boss with a small pang of jealousy. He was toned enough himself but there was nothing to remind him of his small stature like all six feet of Mikoto Suoh's tanned, rock hard body standing around in his underwear. The light played on the patchwork of scars woven across his skin but he wasn't any less attractive for it; if anything, they contributed to his dangerous, rough-edged appeal. Mikoto put his cigarette out in the ashtray on the windowsill, making the red dragon that spanned the length of his back appear coiled with the flexing of his muscles. Its wings stopped at the top of his shoulders and its tail disappeared into the waistband of his briefs where it curled around his hip, as Yata remembered from the couple times Mikoto hadn't bothered with clothes when he had company. Mikoto lowered his arm back to his side and the dragon relaxed along with him.

 

“You went to see Koji for what, a keepsake box?” Mikoto asked as he approached the small crate. 

 

Izumo pried the lid up. “We're not going to get much more than this until they start letting commercial charters back in. Besides, this is for us.”

 

Mikoto crouched down and pushed through a layer of straw to the first package of sealed plastic. The writing on it was in another language but Yata doubted it was labeled accurately. Mikoto tore into the package and laid out the disassembled pieces on the coffee table. The more pieces he pulled out the quicker Yata began to realize it was an assault rifle. His eyes widened at the oval shaped white logo against the matte black finish of the receiver piece.

 

“An FN Scar,” he said with admiration.

 

“FN Scar 17s,” Izumo specified. He took out the next package while Mikoto examined the stripped assault rifle. “I figure I might be needing something better than a bat to keep behind the bar.”

 

“You don't have a bat, Izu, you've got a twelve gauge,” Mikoto said. 

 

For all his grouchiness Mikoto wasted no time assembling the gun. He was almost too fast for Yata's eyes to follow. Pieces clicked together in rapid succession, his progress slowed only when he had to put a pin in place and then resuming with an unsettling fluidity. Yata reeled as the magazine snapped into place and Mikoto sighted the gun in the direction of the window. The wings of the dragon opened wide, the inked skin stretching tighter over his shoulder blades.

 

He passed it to Izumo and opened up the next package. Yata thought the pieces were too small to belong to anything other than a handgun. “Glock?” he asked.

 

“Glock 18,” Mikoto said, running a hand down the magazine. “This is a fully automatic pistol with a thirty-three round mag that it can burn through in under three seconds. Getting this into civilian hands isn't easy.”

 

“Well, it's yours, so you two go ahead and get acquainted,” Izumo said.

 

“My gun is-”

 

“Just fine, I know. Carry that one on your back as a secondary piece, there's already a holster in the bottom of that crate. I'll have to pry the MAC-10 out of your cold, dead hands but I don't think it's going to hurt your feelings any to carry that as a backup.”

 

Mikoto huffed but he was already digging for the holster and looked anything but reluctant to carry the Glock. “Yes, mom.”

 

“Yata, we don't want to get you anything that packs too much of a punch until that leg is back to a hundred and ten percent, but I'll get you something shiny if you make it through this fight with JUNGLE without any more holes. Deal?” Izumo asked.

 

Yata chuckled. “Deal, but I'm picking my piece.”

 

By the time they left, Mikoto was sprawled out on the couch and half asleep again. Yata refused Izumo's offer to take him home and got out at the bar so Izumo could chill at home until it was time to open up, an easy enough feat since his apartment made up the second story of the building. Yata bid him goodbye there and headed back to his place. He was glad when he made it with minimal discomfort.

 

He washed up the few dishes he had accumulated and searched for anything around the apartment he could straighten up. He had left his crutches by the door, he wanted to see how long he could stay on his leg before he needed them again. So far the worst part was still the itching. The biggest task he found was folding the laundry that had been piling up in his armchair where he washed and dried it but never put it away. That took longer than he expected, and a dull throb had formed in his thigh by the time he was done.

 

He was sitting on the couch, almost done cleaning the Beretta when his phone rang. He swiped the screen by feel and put it between his ear and shoulder without looking at the ID. “Yo.”

 

“Hello, Misaki.”

 

He released the slide too quick and had to jerk his finger out of the way before it got pinched. “What's up?”

 

“Nothing in particular, I just got out of class.”

 

Yata resisted the urge to sigh, knowing it would be audible over the line. At least Fushimi had made good on his word to call but it figured that the student seemed to be waiting on him to direct the conversation. He wiped the barrel of the gun with a cleaning cloth one last time. “You doing anything tonight?”

 

“Look who's finally asking me on a date.”

 

“I...” _I'm not_ , his mind said, but his mouth said, “Depends on whether or not you're doing anything.”

 

“I can be.”

 

He felt like there was a double meaning there but he didn't let himself think too hard about it. “You are now. Hang tight at school, I'll come pick you up.”

 

“Tch. You shouldn't be driving yet.”

 

“You go to NYU School of Medicine, right? I'm guessing so since it's the closest one to the hospital.”

 

Fushimi hummed his affirmation. “I suppose I'll be waiting here for you.”

 

The words made Yata's stomach flip and he said his goodbyes quickly before he hung up. He stood up and tucked the gun against the small of his back. He stared at the darkened screen on his phone. Damn it. He really must have been a glutton for punishment after all. Every time he had a chance to leave Fushimi alone, he kept straying closer instead.

 

Too late to go back now, at least as far as that night was concerned. He could take a step back whenever he wanted. It's not like they were seeing each other, nothing had even happened to suggest it until Fushimi up and acted like he was going to kiss him. _Assuming that's what happened and I'm not reading too much into it._ They were just going to spend some time together since he already committed to it and then it was whatever. Yeah.

 

When he got to the parking lot behind the apartment complex, his baby was right where he left her. He wasn't surprised; not a lot of people were stupid enough to jack the bike with the HOMRA insignia on the side, the red and orange flames standing out plain as day against the glossy white paint job. He gave the Yamaha an affectionate pat before he straddled it and started her up. His pants drew a little tighter over his thighs when he put his feet against the pegs, but it was more of a mild discomfort than pain. He could deal with it.

 

He rolled the throttle back as soon as he was out of the parking lot. The wind whipped his hair away from his face, made his eyes sting in the best way. It made him forget about the warehouse. It didn't allow him to care that Fushimi was the walking embodiment of a bad idea with all the chaos already brewing in his life. The wind forced everything out of his mind except the rush, and he wondered if this was what the people with dilated pupils and bleeding nostrils paid Dewa and Chitose for, if it was anything like the same escape they sought.

 

Sooner than he expected he was at the NYU School of Medicine. It was hard to miss seeing as it was pretty much its own block. The buildings stretched higher than anything in Flushing, and higher than many of its neighboring structures, as well. He couldn't imagine having to navigate it. He rolled to a stop at the edge of the sidewalk, and a group of students were openly staring as he put the kickstand down. He gave a half wave and looked around. The place was fucking huge. Did he call Fushimi, did he go look for him? He was at a loss now that he was actually there.

 

One of the ogling students whistled, a redhead like Yata but with much softer waves than his own choppy haircut. “Looks fun to ride. Also, I like your bike.”

 

An all too familiar voice cut through Yata's stammering attempt at a response. “Andy, please keep it in your offensively bright pants.”

 

He flushed deeper as he realized one of the students, standing behind those at the front, was Fushimi. The redhead in skinny jeans – Andy, apparently – had just stepped back to let him through. His hair was down and his arms left bare from his tank top couldn't have looked any paler in the glaring sun but Yata didn't mind his fairness in the least, found that it just better highlighted the lean, wiry muscle on display. He wondered how long it would take before just looking at the gorgeous fucker didn't make him stupid for a minute.

 

His voice finally came back, more steadily than he expected. “You ready, Sunshine?”

 

Fushimi's lips pressed into a thin line and Yata smiled. Irritating Fushimi was no less fun now that it was the first night they met. Yata focused on him rather than the openly gaping students watching them. The student threw a leg over the bike with ease and rested his hands on Yata's hips, a light pressure he almost couldn't feel through the material of his cargo pants. One of the other students catcalled from the back row. He hadn't expected this much attention and he was getting more uncomfortable by the second.

 

“Hold on,” he advised, knocking the stand back up.

 

There wasn't much of a choice once they were in motion. Fushimi jolted forward when the bike picked up speed and wrapped his arms around Yata's waist. His forearms were rigid, fingers laced together. The university wasn't long for disappearing behind them. Yata went back the way he came, stopping only when he got caught by a traffic light.

 

He turned his head in Fushimi's direction. “You ever taken a motorcycle across the Ed Koch before?” he asked, and nodded to the shape of the Manhattan bridge looming in the distance.

 

Fushimi's voice was nearly lost in the road noise but Yata heard him reply, “I've never taken a motorcycle anywhere.”

 

“That explains why you're all stiff. Just relax, and – oh. Um, hey.” He forgot the rest of his sentence as Fushimi had propped his chin on Yata's shoulder to listen, and the taller man's hair was tickling the side of his face in addition to him suddenly being a lot closer. Fushimi moved his head away when they took off again and Yata was glad he didn't have to see the smug expression he knew Fushimi had after that. 

 

The traffic was pretty slow moving until they got past the final light before the bridge. After that, there wasn't another intersection until you were across the bridge and in Queens. He grinned when he laid eyes on the seam where the city pavement gave way to the darker asphalt of the bridge.

 

As soon as he felt the slight bump, he leaned his shoulders forward and the bike accelerated with a scream of the engine, a guttural cry of excitement for the stretch of open road. The arms around his waist cinched for an instant before Fushimi adapted his grip to their speed. He wasn't holding on to Yata in the deathgrip he expected from someone had never been on a motorcycle, let alone a street bike that sliced through the air as his did now. He mirrored Yata in leaning forward and held on just tight enough for Yata to feel the slightest pull of fingers curled into his shirt. He had never ridden with anyone on the back of his bike; he guessed this was a first of sorts for both of them.

 

The wind brought with it the briny smell of the East River below. He felt Fushimi's head turn, the side of his head lean against Yata's back and he wondered what the experience was like for him, if he was breathing in the same scent or turning to take in the view of the city flashing by. He pulled back on the throttle again and Fushimi's arms folded around him just a little tighter. He was surprised by the sudden lightness in his stomach that had nothing to do with their speed. Now that he thought about it, he didn't know how long it had been since he had been so close to someone. Fushimi wasn't embracing him out of intimacy but his hold on Yata's waist, the weight of him against his back, it was oddly grounding.

 

He felt the telltale bump of transition as they came off the bridge. Yata hung a right, leading them away from Fushimi's hospital, away from his own Flushing and the comfort of being in his territory there. There was still a salty tang in the air as they rode parallel to the water.

 

The bike glided to a stop in a parking space for the Gantry Plaza State Park. He waited until Fushimi got up before he stretched and pulled his shirt away from his back where it had gone tacky from the added heat of Fushimi's body. He didn't mind, especially not on the waterfront where it was cooler. It was a little embarrassing how slow he got to his feet but he figured that was better than doing it too fast and falling right back on to the seat. Standing wasn't the greatest feeling ever but, after testing some of his weight on both legs at the same time, he found it was bearable.

 

“What did you think of your first time on a motorcycle?” he asked.

 

Fushimi turned away from the railing overlooking the river to face him and Yata barely heard his reply, distracted by the flush of color the wind had brought to his face, by how much of a disaster his hair had been blown into. He wasn't paying attention to what Fushimi was saying but he was aware of the rhythm of his voice rising and falling like Yata's own chest and taking his mind back to _Misaki, shut up._

 

Keeping a hand on the railing let him walk much like he did when he had his crutches, if not a bit slower. His limp felt even more obvious next to Fushimi's unhindered stride but at least the other man wasn't walking especially fast.

  
  


“So,” he started. _So, I thought you were going to kiss me…and_ _I thought I was going to let you._ “ Which side of the water do you live on?”

  
  


“The other side. I certainly didn't walk across the Queensboro Bridge to get to class.”

  
  


Right. Stupid. He scratched the back of his head. “Seems like a nice school.”

  
  


“Misaki.”

  
  


He hoped Fushimi couldn't see him tense, didn't somehow know that it made him think about what happened in the car, or even if Fushimi regarded that moment as anything significant.

  
  


Satisfied that he had Yata's attention, he asked, “Are you concerned that oxygen levels will deplete if you don't fill the air with pointless small talk?”

  
  


“Well sue me for wanting to get to know you better, asshole.” He wasn't sure if the heat in his face was more from embarrassment or anger at Fushimi's attitude.

  
  


Fushimi moved from his side to in front of him, forcing them both a stop. He leaned sideways against the railing with a smirk. “Look who's taking our date so seriously, I'm flattered.”

  
  


He had stopped _right_ in front of him and Yata had to turn away before Fushimi could read the thoughts that were probably written all over his face. He couldn't even say it wasn't a date when he'd failed to deny it himself on the phone earlier. “If you're flattered then maybe you could stop being such an ass.” He folded his arms on the railing and looked out at the city.

  
  


Fushimi dismissed the words that might have offended anyone else with a huff of breath that almost resembled a laugh. Yata tried to hold on to his frustration but that weird noise had him fighting a smile. He looked over when Fushimi leaned next to him. The breeze coming off the river blew Fushimi's bangs away from his eyes, and he almost wanted to punch him one good time so his face matched his busted personality.

  
  


“I think that's the medical center where your school is,” Yata said, pointing to a distant shape across the river. He chuckled. “I guess it kind of follows you wherever you go.”

  
  


He waited for a smart aleck remark and he would have preferred it over the silence that followed, broken only by the blowing of a boat horn and the scuff of footsteps as people passed them on the sidewalk. He lowered his finger awkwardly. He glanced at Fushimi expecting the unimpressed stare the man often held but his gaze was fixed where Yata had been pointing. His lips were pressed thin, his eyes clouded with something Yata couldn't identify. Not longing. Closer to the opposite, as though he had been reminded of something to which he had to return that he had forgotten. Yata was surprised by how much he hated to see that look on a face that he had just been tempted to plant his fist in. Maybe it was just him being human, that he would want to erase such a crestfallen expression even if Fushimi hadn't done much to deserve the consideration.

  
  


“You're bigger than that place.”

  
  


Fushimi looked at him and blinked in confusion. His eyes widened a fraction when Yata picked up his hand and held it out over the railing. Yata felt a little silly now that Fushimi was patiently waiting (for once) for an explanation, but it was too late to go back now. He pulled Fushimi's limp fingers until they were spread open against the distant Manhattan skyline.

  
  


“See? Now you can't even see it, that's how small it is.”

  
  


“Misaki,” Fushimi said, still sounding confused but nonetheless staring at his hand like he had been shown something ineffable.

  
  


Yata flushed and let go of Fushimi's hand. He couldn't imagine why the school brought up such unpleasant feelings in Fushimi, not when he clearly excelled as a student. Fushimi had mentioned it was just to shut his dad up but Yata didn't think it could be that bad, having everything paid for to attend medical school, to have a high paying career laid out at his feet. Watching Fushimi now, though, he held out on calling him an ungrateful brat. Just this once.

  
  


“What about HOMRA?” Fushimi asked, spreading his fingers wider against the horizon.

  
  


It was his turn to be confused. “What about it?”

  
  


“Tell me how you ended up in a gang. You aren't suited to it.”

  
  


Yata weighed those words before he answered. They weren't said with any particular malice, or any detectable emotion at all. Fushimi barely even sounded curious but he guessed he must have been if he bothered to ask. He traced a deep scratch in the metal railing. The truth of the statement bothered him more than he expected. He didn't like senseless violence or having a reputation that people feared, he didn't get the same high from it that Mikoto did. Izumo was their most rational member and even he seemed to enjoy the power that came with the boundless information he held.

  
  


“They were my family when no one else wanted to be. I was angry and isolated, and Mikoto took me in.”

  
  


Fushimi clicked his tongue and looked away. “You already had a family.”

  
  


“I didn't fit with them anymore and they were all just fine without me.” A familiar bitterness welled in his chest. “So I've got my own family now.”

  
  


Fushimi lowered his hand. “I wonder how Minoru would feel about that.”

  
  


Yata's head snapped to the side and he glared at Fushimi's profile. He readied all the expletives in his foul vocabulary. The words fell apart in his mouth. Fushimi had no right to say that, but what he implied wasn't wrong and that infuriated Yata more than the words themselves. His outlook _would_ hurt his little brother. When he struck out on his own to get away from his mom and stepdad, he left Minoru and Megumi behind, too. He had done it without a second thought. As soon as he had gone under the needle and sat up with the HOMRA insignia on his chest, everything else became second priority. Even them.

  
  


“I was there when he needed me.” _Not that I have to explain myself to you,_ he thought, but he didn't know if he he meant it more toward Fushimi or himself.

  
  


“How heroic,” Fushimi drawled, his smirk returning.

  
  


Yata sighed. It seemed Fushimi was more interested in teasing than truly antagonizing him. He pushed away from the railing and turned to the sidewalk. His frustration with Fushimi aside, he had asked him out and he doubted just standing there was much fun.

  
  


His movement was halted by Fushimi's sudden presence in front of him. Fushimi put his hands on the railing on either side of his waist, effectively trapping him. “Let me go,” Yata said, his only option since pushing forward would crush his body against Fushimi's and...yeah. That could only lead to trouble.

  
  


“You're going to put too much strain on your leg if you keep traipsing around on it,” Fushimi said.

  
  


Yata chuckled. “Spoken like a true doctor.”

  
  


When he looked up they were close enough for him to see the almost undetectable widening of Fushimi's eyes. Yata watched him curiously. He didn't like being pinned to the railing and he didn't think it was an appropriate position to be in with all the people around, but he set it aside for a moment to take in that tiny reaction, as brief as a record skipping and just as easily missed. _Heh. That's what I thought. You're not such a wall of ice after all, huh?_ Intentional or not it was satisfying to get a reaction out of him, as often as Fushimi got under his skin.

  
  


Fushimi leaned in, further enclosing Yata in the cage of his arms and making him wish he had taken advantage of Fushimi's brief lapse of composure to get away. If he got much closer Yata had half a mind to head butt him in the face. He didn't feel threatened exactly, not like he would if it was Yukari Mishakuji bearing down on him, but the struggle to keep his body from reacting to Fushimi with no way to put space between them was calling on his fight or flight instincts. Fuck or flight, if he had to put a name to it.

  
  


“Tell me something,” Fushimi said, as low as if he had said something too indecent for the throng of people coming and going around them.

  
  


Yata scowled. Stupid Fushimi and his stupid voice. “What?”

  
  


“Why did you want to see me again?”

  
  


Fushimi was close enough for his hair to tickle Yata's cheeks when the wind blew it away from his face, so he knew there was no evading the eyes that pinned him down, searching for an answer he himself hadn't found. He just hadn't expected Fushimi to wonder the same thing. No, he hadn't expected him to care.

  
  


Fushimi pressed him when he didn't answer. “You came into the ER with a gunshot wound the same night a body was found in the warehouse district, burned beyond all recognition.” The July day couldn't keep Yata from going cold. In all the chaos, he had never thought about what happened to Iwafune after Izumo shot him. The memory of Mikoto's wild eyes as he rolled a cigarette between his fingers flashed in his mind. Fushimi continued, “That has HOMRA written all over it. I wouldn't think you would have time for this.”

  
  


His words raised more questions than Yata could answer to himself, let alone to both of them. What was _this_ , anyway? One thing had just been leading to another between them. It was true that it wasn't an ideal time to be pursuing whatever the hell _this_ was but his growing interest in Fushimi had started to blend in with his other issues at some point, too seamlessly for him to notice until that point. He couldn't remember when he had stopped thinking about how he couldn't afford to be distracted. The realization shocked him into such a long silence that Fushimi filled it again, with a surprising lack of his usual impatience.

  
  


“I don't care if HOMRA burned that man. You're part of a criminal gang, not the neighborhood watch. I wouldn't expect much different from your people. But _you._ ” His smirk was back, and the tingle it elicited in Yata's stomach was an unsettling combination with the chill that still hadn't left him. “You are a contradiction, Misaki. You fascinate me.”

  
  


Yata looked around, paranoid despite the fact Fushimi's low tone would get lost on the wind long before it ever reached the ears of a bystander. He looked back up at Fushimi once he was satisfied no one overheard talk of HOMRA burning a body. He didn't have much of an answer but when he did voice it, he found that his and Fushimi's reasons weren't all that different.

  
  


“HOMRA will always be my first priority.” _And just who are you trying to remind of that?_ asked a nagging voice in the back of his mind. “But for all your devil-may-care bullshit, you seem kinda interesting. Like I said earlier, I want to get to know you better.”  
  
  


Fushimi's gaze began to drift and Yata's stomach clenched when they settled on his lips. It was an uncomfortable mix of dread and anticipation he felt, seeing where those searching eyes landed. His palms started sweating where he gripped the railing. Part of him wanted space between them but another almost hoped Fushimi would make good on what his eyes promised. Another, even smaller part, said _Man up and do it yourself, then._ He ignored that one the most fervently. Fushimi gave him a hard enough time already without getting more ammunition if Yata was misreading him.

  
  


There was a raspy huff that was something like a laugh again, and Fushimi stepped back. “Whatever you say, Misaki.”

  
  


Yata didn't bother pointing out they had given each other almost the same reasons for wanting to see each other again, too relieved by finally having some air to breathe that Fushimi wasn't standing in. He halfway expected there to be people staring at them but their little encounter hadn't drawn any attention that he noticed. He guessed from an outside perspective they just looked like a couple on a date, standing close and talking low because that's what couples did. He wasn't sure if that thought embarrassed him more or less than the idea of their conversation appearing conspicuous. Fushimi didn't seem to have given it a second thought; he was already walking away, back the way they came.

  
  


“You wanna go somewhere else?” Yata offered.

  
  


“I want to go home so that you'll stop walking around on that leg like there isn't a hole in it.”

  
  


Yata sighed but he felt the sides of his mouth pulling up. He couldn't be upset with the nagging, not when he had been conditioned by HOMRA's own Izumama and when it clearly came from a place of concern, whether Fushimi would own up to it or not. Having Fushimi's frigid ass worry about him was almost flattering.

  
  


“Alright, Sunshine. Home it is.”

  
  


He chuckled at the sound of Fushimi clicking his tongue in annoyance. Yeah, pretty boy, two can play at the button pushing game. They didn't say much else on the walk back to his bike but the silence was kind of nice; companionable, even.

  
  


The parking area was empty save for a woman unloading a stroller at the other end, but soon she had her child buckled in and she went on her merry way. He was about to throw a leg over the bike when lithe fingers hooked in his beltloops and turned him around. He stumbled slightly, one hand falling to the seat behind him and the other one bracing in front of him when his body threatened to tip forward from the sudden change in position. His support from the front turned out to be Fushimi, his tank top bunched up where Yata gripped it. He didn't have time to let go before Fushimi was drawing him closer, sending his heart into a staccato rhythm pounding in his ears.

  
  


_You're holding on to his shirt, it would be easy enough to push him back._

  
  


Yeah, but it was happening so fast, he had deniability. He could convince himself he didn't have time to react if he really wanted to.

  
  


_But you're not pushing, you're pulling. You're pulling him in._

  
  


Fushimi leaned down. “Misaki-”

  
  


A vibration ran up Yata's leg that wasn't just excitement. He jumped, and immediately sighed as he recognized the vibration of his cell phone. He slid it out just enough to look at the screen. Izumo. Damn, he couldn't ignore that one. He gave Fushimi an apologetic look and put the phone to his ear. Fushimi didn't respond, but he didn't move, either. Their faces were so close that Fushimi's breathing would probably be audible on the other end of the line. Yata figured his would be louder, though. Their proximity wasn't doing much to let his heart slow down.

  
  


Fushimi's eyes followed his lips as he said, “Hey, Izumo.”

  
  


There was no teasing or airy greeting. Izumo's tone was as cold and hard as a knife, and his words cut just as deep. “You need to get to the bar right now. Dewa was attacked. It's bad, Yata. It's really bad.”

  
  
  


 


	6. Genius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: Graphic depiction of a surgical operation, just a general squick warning for anyone who doesn't like blood or intrusive surgery.

Yata had a million questions but there was already dial tone echoing back to him. It took a few tries to get his phone back in his pocket with his hands shaking. The breeze from the water seemed to be colder than before, like someone was walking icy fingers down his spine.

 

“I've gotta go.”

 

The blackness engulfing his vision worried him at first, until he realized his unfocused gaze had fallen to Fushimi's chest. He couldn't keep his head raised to look at him. It felt heavy, everything felt heavy.

 

He groped his pockets for his wallet, cursing his fingers, willing them to just be _still goddammit._

 

“I'll pay for you a cab. I'm sorry, it's an emergency.”

 

“I take it you're meeting them at Mount Sinai.”

 

He started to ask how Fushimi knew what was going on before he remembered the fractional space between them, realized the conversation had been just as clear to Fushimi as it was to him. He forced his mind to process the rest of what Fushimi said. Mount Sinai...the hospital. No.

 

“Dewa's wanted in just about every city in Queens for drug distribution. He shows up in the system and he's gone.”

 

Fushimi reclined his weight back onto his heel, creating just a little more room, a little more air for Yata to suck in like he wouldn't get another chance. “It sounded serious. For you and that drug dealer's sake, I hope you have someone in HOMRA who can patch up holes instead of just blowing them into people.”

 

Yata scrubbed his hands over his face. His legs had started to shake but he didn't think it was from pain. He didn't know for sure. Everything felt dulled. “We have him and Chitose.” His hands fell to his sides. “Shit.”

 

“What?”

 

“Dewa and Chitose have been together since highschool...there's no way Chitose's going to be in any condition to help him right now. We're going to have to get him that way, though, and I need to go be with him so I'm really sorry but I gotta go.”

 

“Just take me with you.”

 

Yata paused in his fumbling attempt to unclip his keys from his belt loop. “Huh?”

 

Fushimi reached down and released the clip, and handed Yata the keys. “It doesn't sound like you have any other options.”

 

“Fushimi...” Yata stared down at the keys, the blurry shapes finally coming into focus. “We're at war with another gang. We have no idea where their eyes and ears are, we haven't been able to pin them down. You could become a target if you help us.”

 

“Tch. I'll manage. This could be a useful learning experience in working under pressure.”

 

_He's not a learning experience, he's my friend, he's family._ Yata pushed those thoughts down as another, smaller voice rose up from the back of his mind.  _Can Mr. Fooshimmy do it?_

 

Minoru had been a learning experience, too, and he might be alive now because of it.

 

“Let's go.”

 

 

He did the drive from the Plaza to the bar in half the time it usually would have taken and it might have been a miracle that the two of them didn't end up needing a hospital by the time he put the kickstand down, but they reached the HOMRA bar unscathed. He stood up and grimaced at the ache that had blossomed into sharp pain in his thigh. He ignored it; from what Izumo said, Dewa had a lot more wrong than some leg pain. Yata could deal.

 

He wasn't surprised to find the bar locked. He flipped to the right key and let himself in, holding the heavy wooden door for Fushimi to follow. Immediately, he found why the blinds were drawn and both the lock and deadbolt on the door were engaged.

 

Dewa was laid out on two tables pushed together, heaving shallow, wet sounding breaths. Most of HOMRA had already assembled, saving a couple lower ranking members that were probably on a run. Yata approached him shakily. The dim lighting did nothing to hide the sallow hue of his skin, the beads of sweat clinging to it.

 

Chitose was pacing at the window on the phone, bits of the conversation reaching Yata's ears over the rest of HOMRA's voices. “We do basic first aid for the gang, I don't have the equipment for an xray. I don't know if he would make it long enough to get to you. I've sewn up my fair share of stab wounds and bullet holes but I don't know about this and it's fucking _Masaomi.”_ Yata heard the choked sound of him trying to hold his emotions back. “I can't cut on him, man. I can't do it.”

 

He looked to where Mikoto stood at the end of the table where Dewa was spread out, arms folded and muscles taut. He didn't have to wonder about the conversation that had already been had. Mikoto had told Chitose he was Dewa's best shot, and he could either man up and try to help him, or leave him to die on that table. Yata could hear the words as clearly in his mind as if they were being spoken out loud. That was the kind of boss Mikoto was. Strong, fearless, a little unhinged, and probably being a complete asshole about the situation. Yata had almost forgotten his company until the boss' eyes flashed and a tic appeared in his jaw.

 

“Who the fuck did you bring here?”

 

Yata opened his mouth but Fushimi passed him and was standing in front of Mikoto with three long strides. It put his back to Yata but he could see the relaxed set of his shoulders like he wasn't less than a foot from the most dangerous man in Flushing.

 

“I'm training to be a doctor, I was with Misaki when one of your lackeys called-”

 

Mikoto rose from his slouch to his full height. “You'll show my second man some respect.”

 

“-when one of your _upper_ lackeys called and thought I would come along.”

 

Yata could see Mikoto's fuse burning down at rapid speed and cut in before either of them could say anything else. “Fushimi is going to be a trauma surgeon, he trained under Doc. He can help.”

 

“You bring some kid in here who's not even a doctor yet and think he's going to cut on one of mine?”

 

Again, Fushimi spoke before Yata could offer what would have surely been a less antagonistic response. “I came for the experience.” He looked over at Dewa, whose shirt had been cut open and pushed away from his chest. “Those bruises on his chest and the fact it's rising unevenly tell me he's suffering from hemothorax, internal bleeding as the result of blunt force trauma since I don't see any open wounds. Hit by a car, I would bet.” Yata could tell by the narrowing of Mikoto's eyes that he was right. “But whether he lives or dies doesn't matter to me. So, by all means, you all hold hands around this table and chant 'no blood, no bone, no ash' until the excess fluid stops accumulating in his pleural cavity. Let me know how that goes for you.”

 

Mikoto entered the last bit of Fushimi's space, his larger frame letting him tower over the student even without a great height difference between them, his eyes bright and livid. Yata was frozen to the spot. No way in fuck was he getting in the way of a look like that. He still couldn't see Fushimi's face, but he had a feeling he knew what it looked like; calm, disinterested. Bordering on defiant. Fushimi had yet to flinch since he stepped up to Mikoto.

 

Tatara's hand closed on Mikoto's shoulder. “Mikoto, I know the kid is arrogant, but we have to think about Dewa. You can punch him later.”

 

_I would rather you don't punch him at all,_ Yata thought, but he wouldn't dare voice it or Mikoto might punch them all just to make sure it was out of his system. 

 

“You do anything to fuck with him, and I'll bust your hands up so bad you never write again, to hell with being a surgeon. You got that?”

 

“Oh, don't scare me like that, I might be trembling too much to work,” Fushimi said flatly, and turned away from him. He looked at Yata. “I need whatever surgical tools you have, and preferably a catheter tube. Also, please keep Clifford the Big Red Gangster there out of my way.”

 

Yata heard the scuffling of feet as Tatara held Mikoto back from pummeling Fushimi right then and there, and cringed. “Yeah, I'll try to find what you need, but you can't talk about the boss like that.”

 

Fushimi carried on like he hadn't said anything. He glanced at Chitose, who had ended his conversation and approached the table carefully, like just looking at his lover's condition would make it worse. “You're his partner?”

 

“In every way that I can be,” Chitose said with a dry, rueful laugh.

 

Fushimi pressed his fingers to the side of Dewa's neck while he looked at his watch. “Tell me what happened.”

 

“There's a member of a rival gang, Yukari. We found out where his apartment was. We've got intel that Yukari is out of the country but we've been keeping an eye on the place to see if we could catch any other members coming and going, maybe follow them back to whatever they use as a base. JUNGLE is a bunch of ghosts.” His eyes fell to Dewa's bruised form. “I had to make a delivery last minute, and he went alone. He called me when it happened and talked to me for as long as he could while I was on my way to him. A team from JUNGLE caught on to us. Whether they were waiting for a single target or it was coincidence that they showed up while he was alone, I don't know, but one went upstairs and as soon as Yuu went into the alley to follow them, a car came around the corner and hit him.”

 

Yata brought over the first aid kit from behind the bar, and Fushimi took out a pair of gloves. “Good. Having to round a corner slowed them down, lessened the impact. They probably weren't counting on that. I'm sure this was intended to be fatal, and it still might be.”

 

Chitose's face darkened at that but it didn't look like it was news to him that Dewa's injuries could kill him. He left to get the medical equipment he had brought in his car and Yata looked up at Fushimi as soon as the door closed behind him. “Look, I'm definitely no doctor, but what can you do about internal bleeding without doing x-rays? I mean, you can't see what's going on in there.”

 

“No, I can't.”

 

Izumo had been silent this far, standing by Mikoto, but he stepped forward now. “Then what's your plan?”

 

“Use what I know about the accident and the physical evidence of the bruising to narrow down where his chest wall is bleeding from. Then, I'll know where the blood is pooling.”

 

Izumo lowered his head for his eyes to be visible above the tint of his sunglasses. “I thought you said it was some cavity in the chest.”

 

Chitose returned, putting an end to Izumo's questioning as he spread out two armfuls of equipment on the next empty table. Sleeves of surgical tools, a respirator, some plastic tubes wrapped in more plastic, a few small machines that Yata didn't recognize, it all fell from his shaking hands on to the polished wood. Yata knew it was ill timed but he couldn't help but think they were going to have to do one hell of a sterilization job before they served any customers.

 

“Misaki, put on a pair of gloves.”

 

“What, me?”

 

Fushimi took an elastic out of his jeans pocket and pulled his hair up in a ponytail. He cocked his head toward Chitose. “He won't be steady enough to help and I need another set of hands. Put on some gloves or let this guy keep bleeding inside until his lungs can no longer expand under the weight and he suffocates. Take your pick.”

 

“ _God_ you're an asshole.”

 

He took the damn things out of the box, though, and pulled them on.

 

“There's a grey sleeve of tools rolled out to your left. Hand me the second scalpel.”

 

Yata did as he asked, and saw the rigid form of Mikoto move from his place a few feet away.

 

“You sure you know what you're doing?” he asked, coming to loom over Fushimi so much as he could with only a couple inches of difference in their height.

 

Fushimi just smirked, spinning the scalpel between the fingers of his left hand, his non dominant hand for fuck's sake, with a dexterity that Yata had no doubt could be deadly with the right intent. “Let's find out.”

 

“Guys!” Their heads turned to where Tatara stood, seething with the closest thing to anger Yata had ever seen him show. “Dewa is _dying_ , so maybe we can, I don't know, _save him_ and then you two can fight over who has a bigger dick later.”

 

A shocked silence claimed the room for a moment, broken only by Anna, who had been off to the side leaning against Sukuna. She raised her hand. “I agree.”

 

Chitose looked relieved to see Fushimi resuming his work and something on his cheeks glistened that, for his sake, Yata would pretend was sweat from the room getting too hot with them all packed into it.

 

“Misaki, hand me that rubber tube.”

 

In a flurry of movements, Fushimi had flayed the end of the tube into strips, and put it to the side. “I need a dry plastic jug, preferably one that's only held water.”

 

“I can get that, we store all our empty jugs and bottles for recycling,” Izumo said, already making his way behind the bar and into the storeroom.

 

“The sealed plastic tube that has the number thirty-two on the wrapping.”

 

Yata picked one up that said twenty-eight, found another just like it, and finally found the one Fushimi was looking for. He glanced at Fushimi's face when he passed it over. Fushimi never raised his eyes from his patient. Unease had spread throughout the room, a mutual feeling of anxiety as Dewa's skin lost more and more of its color, but either Fushimi was unaware of it or was able to tune it out.

 

Fushimi fastened the rubber tube he had cut to the end of the plastic tube he had just unwrapped. “We don't have a drainage system so this is going to have to suffice as a flutter valve, make sure airflow is directed away from his chest and none goes back into it. Misaki, pull out a chair for this jug. It needs to be below his chest level. Gravity is going to be our vacuum.”

 

“What now?” Yata asked after he sat the jug in its place.

 

“Now we make the incision.” Perspiration had gathered at Fushimi's temples and matted down the strands of his bangs that fell out of his ponytail. Part of Yata had expected to see him show some emotion, being in his element, doing what he was in school training to do but his composure was unwavering. He extended his gloved fingers. “The clamps.”

 

Yata picked up the only thing he thought Fushimi could be referring to, which looked like a small pair of scissors with more square blades. Dewa's shirt had already been cut away when he was put on the table, letting Yata see the glisten of antiseptic as Fushimi cleaned an area on his ribcage. He met Mikoto's eyes from further down the table. The hostility had left the boss' gaze, leaving only the suffocating tension of watching Dewa's life hang in the balance. Chitose stood at the other end, by Dewa's head, and he looked one more staggered breath away from a panic attack. The rest of HOMRA gradually moved in closer until they could all see what was going on. Anna pushed Sukuna's hand away when he tried to cover her eyes. She laced their fingers together, instead, and pulled them to her cheek.

 

Fushimi felt along Dewa's ribs for a couple of minutes, and then silver flashed among the red as a hole opened in his side. Yata wanted to look away, felt his stomach churn as Fushimi opened the whole wider, but it almost felt cowardice, like a disservice to Dewa who was laid out on the table for trying to get a lock on JUNGLE's base. He steeled himself and fixed his eyes on the wash of blood over latex when Fushimi held the hole open with his finger.

 

“The tube.”

 

Yata handed it to him. There was a sour taste in the back of his throat as the tube was inserted, and began to disappear further into Dewa's body. He couldn't help but flinch, though, when blood began to surge through it. He heard a sharp intake of breath that could have been one of them or all of them.

 

He couldn't count how many times Chitose and Dewa had saved their asses. They had the most anatomical knowledge of anyone in the gang, and Yata had seen them close up stab wounds, reset a dislocated shoulder or two. Always _them._ Always together. They were not individual members of HOMRA, they were a team who didn't seem to function separately or be inclined to try. Dewa's blood looked as dark as an omen, running through the clear tube. There was so much.

 

Then the lopsided appearance of his chest began to change, and Yata realized only one side of it had been rising and falling when he breathed. He jerked his head up to see a look on Fushimi's face that could almost be called relief.

 

“The thoracostomy was successful. Misaki, sutures.”

 

He fumbled for the kit, dropped it a couple times before he managed to get it into Fushimi's hands because if he heard that right then what Fushimi had done _worked._ The casual statement had given the rest of the group pause, as well, a collective moment of making sure they heard and understood it right. Fushimi didn't elaborate further as he began the process of removing the tube and closing the hole in Dewa's ribs.

 

Chitose's shaky voice finally broke across the murmurs of the others. “So, he's going to be okay?”

 

“He's going to live. Okay might be an optimistic word for how poorly he's going to be feeling, but he's not going to die.”

 

Yata was glad the stitches didn't take long, because his mind blanked out when he circled the table and he honestly wouldn't have cared what he disrupted once Fushimi was within reach. He wasn't about to get on his toes to reach for the taller man's neck but he didn't think twice about pulling his stupid, skinny, brilliant waist into an embrace. He heard the pop of Fushimi discarding his gloves, felt the warmth of his own breath puff back against his face when he exhaled into Fushimi's tank top. Fushimi's hands settled on his shoulders and just kind of...patted them. Whatever. He wasn't even surprised that Fushimi's stunted ass didn't know how to hug.

 

Mikoto slammed a hand down on the bar. “No blood.”

 

Izumo's voice joined him. “No bone.”

 

“Here we go,” Fushimi muttered, the words almost lost in the chant that was suddenly filling the bar.

 

Yata laughed as he released him. He would have stood there with his arms around Fushimi until the sun came up if it got him any closer to expressing the immeasurable gratitude he felt, but the adrenaline was wearing off and his leg's protests were no longer willing to be silent. He eased himself down in a chair at the table full of medical supplies. Chitose seemed to have used his last reserve of strength as well, his head down on the table next to Dewa, holding his partner's hand in a grip that would likely have it sore by the time he woke up.

 

Rikio had been staying out of the way since they arrived, but he made his presence known as he raised what had to be the biggest bottle of liquor Izumo had on the shelf. “We've got all the more reason to kick JUNGLE's ass now, but for tonight I think this calls for celebration!”

 

Yata looked back at the boss, who had taken his place on his favorite leather couch. “Dewa is gonna live to fight with us another day. Pour em' up, Izu,” Mikoto said.

 

The room erupted into a warm, sweet chaos. He gladly took the shot that Rikio brought to him and lifted it to Dewa, unconscious though he was, before throwing it back. Izumo came to join him once everyone had a drink. He sat next to Yata and leaned forward on his elbows with just a hint of a conspiratorial smile.

 

“So,” he said, running a finger along the edge of the shot glass dangling in his hand, “That was him.”

 

Yata didn't have to ask. “Yeah. That was him.”

 

“He's something else.”

 

A smile of his own came unbidden to his face. “Yeah, he is.”

 

“If he'd stuck around, I'm sure the boss would have thanked him. Mikoto doesn't have to like him to appreciate what he did.” Izumo sat his glass down in favor of taking out his Zippo and a cigarette.

 

Yata straightened. “He's already gone?”

 

“He bailed out as soon as Rikio called for drinks.”

 

He looked around but, sure enough, Fushimi was gone. If Yata hadn't seen the extent of his medical knowledge firsthand, he would think Fushimi was scared of having an allergic reaction to socializing. He groaned as he stood back up. Izumo watched him, drawing on his cigarette, but he didn't stop him from making his way through the throng of HOMRA members to get to the door.

 

There was enough daylight left that the streetlights weren't on, but the artificial glow of the surrounding businesses was enough to scan the crowd. Fushimi was nowhere in sight.

 

He took out his phone and hit Fushimi's contact. He thought it was going to go to voicemail, until came the familiar voice. “It didn't take you long to start missing me, Misaki.”

 

“Where did you run off to? I could have taken you home, it's the least I could have done after what you did for us.”

 

“Tch. I told you, I did it for the practice. I have no desire for your gang of well dressed pyromaniacs to be in my debt.”

 

Yata sighed and moved back enough that he could lean against the wall, take some of the weight off. “I still would have taken you home.”

 

“It's fine, I'm meeting Reisi at Mount Sinai and going back with him.”

 

Stubborn ass. “You didn't have to put your boss, or senior doctor or whatever, out of his way. I really wouldn't have minded.” _I really, really wouldn't have minded having a chance to thank you somewhere that wasn't full of people._

 

“It's not out of his way. We're both going to his apartment building.”

 

The words didn't register as unusual at first, but as soon as they did, it felt like someone had doused him in cold water. Pieces that he would have rather not gone together slowly fell into place. Fushimi already planning to do his residency under him, the fond way Doc looked at him, the first name basis. He stared at the sidewalk. Wow, he was an idiot.

 

“Okay.”

 

He didn't wait to hear Fushimi's clipped version of a goodbye. He ended the call with an odd pressure on his chest. The weight of his naivety, maybe. The thought of Doc's – _Reisi's –_ striking eyes sent a wave of irritation through him. They were a perfect fit. Doc's easygoing nature with Fushimi's colder demeanor, his people skills to make up for Fushimi's lack thereof. They were both so fucking _smart._ He didn't realize his grip had been tightening on his phone until pain shot through his hand. Part of him wanted to tell the boss. The other part noted that Mikoto hadn't seemed to have gotten anywhere, anyway, and now Yata knew why.

 

He pocketed his phone. It wouldn't be long before someone came looking for him. He just needed to go back inside and let Izumo make him drinks until he stopped trying to figure out why he was upset.

 

 

 

_Chink, chink. Chink, chink._

 

Something was bothering Izumo. It was dark, but he didn't have to see to recognize the sound of that restless habit.

 

_Chink, chink, chink. Chink, chink, chink._

 

His own heartrate was picking up in time with the flipping of Izumo's lighter. Why was it making him so nervous? He didn't know where he was, but he felt hot, getting hotter by the minute,

 

_Chink, chink, chink. Chinkchinkchink-_

 

Make it stop. Something bad was going to happen.

 

_Chinkchinkchinkchinkchinkchink_

 

_Yata, he's got my_

 

_BANG_

 

Yata threw himself upright with a cry withering in his dry throat. He fisted his hands in the sheets. He was scared to look down, to see his leg soaked in blood, while the gunshot was still echoing in his head. There was so much pain accompanying the phantom sound that he almost thought he got shot there, instead. He pressed a hand to his temple and groaned. He didn't even remember going to bed. A reluctant glance down told him he was dressed in the same clothes as yesterday. He was laying on top of the blankets so he knew from the quick look at himself that his leg was perfectly fine, or as fine as it was going to get. No blood, no hole in his cargo pants.

 

He stood up and immediately sat back down when pain shot from knee to hip on his recovering leg. Okay, maybe fine was generous. He had spent way too much time on it yesterday. He begrudgingly snatched his crutches from beside the bed and pushed on to them. That was one pain eliminated, leaving only his throbbing head to trouble him. He began the awkward descent downstairs to his kitchen, and more importantly, his aspirin.

 

He cleared the last step and heard, “Look who's finally awake, good afternoon.”

 

His hand flew to his lower back to find his gun missing, but he realized its absence about the same time he realized the voice belonged to Izumo and exhaled with a few curses on his breath. “What are you doing here?”

 

Izumo craned his head back over the arm of the couch, where it looked like he had slept going from the rumpled throw blanket that was usually on the armchair, and the fact Izumo's phone was charging on the coffee table. “By the time I got you in bed I was pretty whacked, and I figured I would keep this out of your hands until you'd had a little less vodka.” He held up Yata's cell phone.

 

“Oh, shit.” Yata twisted the cap on the bottle and shook a couple white tablets into his hand. “What did I do?”

 

“Don't worry, I didn't let you do too much damage. You came back into the bar asking for Goose so I knew something had to be wrong.” Izumo stood and crossed the short distance from the couch to the kitchen area. He laid Yata's phone on the Formica countertop that would have done a good job impersonating marble if it wasn't peeling at the edges.

 

Yata unlocked his phone with dread. His messages were still up, and his stomach dropped as soon as he saw who he had texted most recently. He tapped Fushimi's name to bring up the conversation. One look at the texts from last night had him groaning and shoving the phone back at Izumo, like the strategist could undo them.

 

**To: Fushimi**

**2:12 AM**

 

_**if u and doc r happy then im happy fr you im sure you guys r good tgether** _

 

**From: Fushimi**

**2:57 AM**

 

_**Can you resend that message in English?** _

 

**To: Fushimi**

**3:01 AM**

 

_**sry been drinking** _

 

**3:02 AM**

 

_**ur so fuckng pretty hes lucy** _

 

**3:03 AM**

 

_**lucky** _

 

 

Perhaps out of mercy, Fushimi never responded after that. Yata pulled the bag of grounds from the cabinet and started the coffee maker. He didn't drink much, and after seeing his phone, he didn't think he was ever going to do it again. The idea of being upset over Fushimi seeing someone was bad enough but he had actually sent Fushimi that nonsense; tangible, irrevocable proof of his own stupidity. There was no taking it back. He waited for the last drops of liquid to taper off before he poured him and Izumo each a cup of coffee.

 

If fate was kind to him then he would just never speak to or cross paths with Fushimi again and be spared the humiliation. After the attack on Dewa, it wasn't like he was in the mindset for...for _whatever_ had been going on between them, anyway. He stared at his reflection in the dark surface of his brew. The smell wafted up to his nose, and suddenly coffee was the last thing he wanted.

 

“We got any leads on the assholes that got Dewa?” he asked.

 

Izumo stirred milk into his coffee until it was more the color of milk chocolate than ebony. “We have a license plate number. Him and Chitose have been wearing cams on their collars in case they got anything useful staking out Yukari's apartment that we might want to go back over later. That car has probably been flattened into scrap metal by now but it's the most solid thing we've had yet. If you want to clean up and get changed, I'm going to Mikoto's when I leave.”

 

“Yeah. Sounds good.” He sat his untouched drink on the counter and started to turn away, before faltering and looking back at the blond man leaning there. “Thanks for staying over and keeping me out of trouble. I know that's not really your job.”

 

Izumo laughed. His glasses were still folded up on the coffee table, giving Yata a rare display of the amusement in his eyes. “I've been cleaning up after Mikoto since highschool. Keeping you all out of trouble is exactly my job. Now, go get ready, we have work to do.”

 

He took a long enough shower to wash off and let the hot water ease some of the pounding in his leg, made quick work of drying off and got dressed for the morning – or maybe the afternoon, he hadn't paid much attention to the time when he'd looked at his phone. He picked the 92 up off the nightstand and slid it into the back of his waistband.

 

The Beretta felt heavier than it had since he was shot. He rested his hand on the leather grip. It had been one thing when his life was put in danger, but a member of his family had almost died. He curled his fingers around the weapon. It felt alive, as though it could sense his anger, his resolve. Soon, he thought. He would have to use it soon. He would take his place as the captain of HOMRA's defenses and spill JUNGLE's blood with the gun in his hand. The thought didn't bring him anxiety nor excitement; just resignation, his anger a muted spark that hadn't yet become a flame.

 

They had spilled his family's blood, first. Their deaths were justified now.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the short chapter after taking so long to update, my new job is kicking my whole ass. I did a spotty proofreading job because I really wanted to post something so please let me know any errors you find and I'll fix them! Thank you so much for your patience if you came to read the new chapter (: xo


	7. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: Referenced drug overdose  
> Not a full chapter, just a little snippet from someone else's POV but I am working on the next real chapter! I might do these from time to time to pop in on other characters throughout the story but it will stay primarily from Yata's POV (:

Her name was Bethany Richards. She had poorly dyed blond hair, and a gap between her front teeth. It was her first time partying. She waited until she was twenty-one, until it was legal, and her best friend took her to a nightclub. Her ruched black dress still had a stiff zipper from never being worn before. Her glittery hairspray must have looked like so many stars under the club's strobe lights but it lost its beauty under the cold fluorescents. _I just wanted her to try it with me,_ her friend said, mascara streaked down her face. _I went to go dance with someone, I didn't know she was going to take any more. She was such a good girl, I don't know why she didn't stop. Oh, God, I should have been there to stop her._

 

No one was there to stop Bethany from taking the next line of white powder off the secluded table in the back, or the many that followed.

 

Bethany Richards died on the table, and her name was seared into Reisi's mind with everyone else he had failed to save.

 

His chair creaked as he leaned back from the desk. Her widely spaced teeth had been smeared with red where her nose bled from overdosing. He didn't commit the patients who died to his memory out of guilt or even obligation, he had been a doctor too long to think he could save them all, he had just never forgotten the name of someone who died under his care. Maybe it was a subconscious gesture of respect, or apology. He had never considered it much until then, at almost three A.M. when everyone was plagued by thoughts that only seemed to surface in the tenuous space between night and morning.

 

He pushed away the book he had been reading, one of the few that wasn't a medical digest or nonfiction work of some kind, and rubbed his eyes under his spectacles. He had reread the same paragraph too many times for him to have any remaining hope that he was going to be able to concentrate.

 

The grandfather clock in the corner told him it was two forty-five. Nowhere near the latest he'd ever been up. Some days, he was just now starting his call. He left the clean, comforting space of his study and went down the hallway into the kitchen. His study, housed in the second of the apartment's two bedrooms, held most of his personal items. The rest of the place was pristine almost to the point of being sterile. There was never a smudge on the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that made up one wall of the living room, the burgundy veins in the black marble countertop always shone as though they were just installed yesterday. If he took more company he was sure someone would say it barely looked like anyone lived there but few would understand that the thought of a stain on the carpet could keep him awake half the night until he got up and cleaned it. The immaculate state of his apartment was exactly what made it feel like home.

 

He turned up a bottle of water for a few long gulps before refilling it and returning it to the fridge. No sooner than he closed it did someone start banging on his door. Reisi sighed. He didn't take much company, but one of the few people he'd ever invited to his apartment had no concept or time nor courtesy.

 

He didn't bother with the peephole, just unlocked the door and pulled it open.

 

Fushimi waited on the other side with the same intensity that always brought him to Reisi's door. He stepped into Reisi's space without preamble. “I need you.”

 

“Fushimi, we've talked about this, I don't think these visits are appropriate for-”

 

Fushimi crowded against Reisi's larger frame, trying to force himself into the blocked doorway. “It has to be you.”

 

He could have easily overpowered the younger man but he stepped back, let himself be maneuvered backward into the apartment. The disparity in Fushimi's eyes always wore him down. His irises were a feverish blue, his hands insistent where he pushed Reisi inside so he could kick the door shut behind them.

 

The heat of Fushimi's stare was too much, too strong a reminder of the passion he'd possessed himself at that age – not that he was especially old, but damn he felt it sometimes – and he succumbed to the silent demands of Fushimi's body. He spun them so that Fushimi's back hit the door and held him there by the shoulders.

 

“Fine,” he said, voice more composed than he felt. Excitement was starting to fester in him. “Tell me what you want.”

 

“We still barely know anything about how sensory and motor cortical areas interact to mediate sensorimotor integration. It's kept me awake for two hours.”

 

Reisi sighed and released Fushimi's shoulders to walk into the kitchen. He ran them both a glass of cold water and sat at the kitchen island. Fushimi settled across from him, the brighter lights revealing the bloodshot surrounding those impassioned eyes, the dark shadows of exhaustion that hung beneath them.

 

“You won't need to know such intricacies of neuroanatomy to be a trauma surgeon,” Reisi assured him.

 

“I just need to understand why parts of such a direct concept are still unknown. I may not need to know those _intricacies_ but there are people who do, and they can't figure it out.” Fushimi pushed the glass of water away. “Don't you have coffee?”

 

“You don't need coffee, you need sleep.” Reisi knew he said the words with too much concern, their soft edges making Fushimi's eyes narrow. He sighed as he took in the student's appearance. He was wearing black track pants that he had probably worn to bed and a navy zip-up hoodie that had apparently been too much trouble to zip. Reisi's eyes roamed the span of his chest left bare underneath. His collarbones stood out more than they should have, and he was sure if Fushimi stood up he would be able to see the lower half of his ribs. He honestly wished he could force the boy to sleep for a week and spend the following week doing nothing except eating (food that was actually nutritious) and occupying himself with things that _didn't_ require brainpower, no matter how much of it he had.

 

“Boston University did a study on those interactions. Look it up, it might help.”

 

Fushimi took his phone out of one of his hoodie pockets and Reisi sipped his water. He knew better than to tell Fushimi to leave it alone. Once something was on his mind that he couldn't figure out, it would burrow in deep like a parasite, eat away at him until he solved it or found something to ease his curiosity. Reisi had tried breaking him of the habit until he realized Fushimi loathed it more than anyone. Rather than keep trying to discourage him from it, Reisi finally resolved to help him whenever he could, not least of all since it was the only form of help Fushimi would accept from him. A student showing up on his senior doctor's doorstep at all hours of the night and day didn't seem appropriate to Reisi but he would take that over the thought of Fushimi working through it alone, going mad as he paid the high price for his genius.

 

“Surprised by their findings?” he asked when Fushimi continued to stare blankly at his phone.

 

“Reisi.”

 

He took another sip of his water. “Hm?”

 

“I think he's stupid,” Fushimi said, with the somber, sympathetic tone of someone who had just diagnosed a man with cancer.

 

He turned his phone around in lieu of explaining any further. Reisi leaned forward on his elbows to read the text from Misaki, sent at 2:12 AM.

 

**if u and doc r happy then im happy fr you im sure guys r good together**

 

“Is he talking about you and I?”

 

Fushimi propped his chin on his hand and stared at him. “No, thankfully he's referring to the other person he calls Doc.”

 

“I hope you don't take any offense, but the thought of fornicating with you makes me physically ill.”

 

Fushimi didn't look up from typing out his reply. “I would sooner throw myself off the top of this building.”

 

“Excellent.”

 

“I don't know what gave him the impression otherwise.”

 

Reisi stretched the best he could without fear of tipping his stool backward. “It's like my CO used to tell me. 'You can fix a door, and you can fix the sink, but you can't fix stupid.'” His shoulders finally gave the pop he was looking for and he straightened up. “I assume you're going to correct him.”

 

“I'm going to ask him to repeat his message in a more comprehensible language and hope something was lost in translation.”

 

Fushimi typed rapidly and sat his phone on the counter. Reading the article must have been forgotten, as he folded his arms and rested his head there while he waited for a response. Reisi doubted this was as much a choice as the weight of fatigue forcing his eyes closed. His hair was scantly darker than the ebony wood of the island, blending in and making his skin look even more white sallow in contrast. _You could do amazing things, Fushimi, if I can just keep you from self destructing._

 

His phone chimed, but he didn't raise his head from his arms.

 

It couldn't have been a full minute before it went off again. Fushimi's shoulders rose and fell in a steady rhythm under the bunched fabric of his hoodie, asleep at last.

 

Reisi's curiosity got the best of him when it went off a third time. He glanced down at the lit up screen and had just enough time to skim over the banner notifications before it turned black again.

 

**Misaki (3:01 AM): sry been drinking**

 

**Misaki (3:02 AM): ur so fucking pretty hes lucy**

 

**Misaki (3:03 AM): lucky**

 

Reisi chuckled. How simple things would be for him, if he and Fushimi were together. They had like minds, a world of things in common. Fushimi had an enviable face and insisted on burning what few calories he took in with exercise ( _“Tch. I'm a medical student, I've seen firsthand what happens when you don't maintain your body.”_ ) so he wasn't unattractive by a long shot. Most convincing of all for their case, Reisi loved him. He had gone through many sleepless nights and weary days to chip away at Fushimi's walls until he accepted what little help he was now willing to come to Reisi for. He would be lucky, indeed, if only his feelings were of the romantic sort.

 

_But yours are very much of the romantic sort, aren't they, Misaki Yata?_

 

He smiled at the young man asleep in his kitchen. “Don't give up him just yet, Yata,” he mused to the now silent phone sitting between them. “You might just be able to save him.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I am also working on a Bungo Stray Dogs (Soukoku) fic in between chapters of this if any of you are in that fandom as well and might be interested :D I already ran into one of my readers there that reads this story too, which was awesome!   
> Thank you for reading this mini-chapter <3 xo


	8. Genzai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Violence, intentional handicapping.
> 
> Is Enter Sandman by Metallica overused for fight scenes? Yes.  
> Do I care? No.
> 
> If anyone is interested, I was listening to Halsey's cover of Walk The Line writing the second half of the chapter, and if there was going to be a song playing in the background it would be that one.
> 
> Thanks for coming to read the new chapter!

The good thing about having an information broker in a gang is that when someone crossed them, there wasn't a nook or cranny in New York they could crawl into where Izumo couldn't find them. In twenty-four hours they had the scrapyard that crushed the car from the alleyway.

 

The good thing about the boss having a reputation that reached to every corner of the Queens borough was that most people they talked to knew exactly what happened if Mikoto Suoh got angry. Ten minutes after they arrived at the scrapyard, they had the name of the guy who hit Dewa and where he liked to hang out. That might have had a lot to do with the owner of the scrapyard they left at his desk, dripping in kerosene, who got pretty loose lipped after Mikoto held up a match and said it was going to get hot in there if he didn't start talking.

 

That was how two days after Dewa had his brush with death, a humid night found the three top members of HOMRA in front of a seedy bar in College Point. A few heads had turned at the arrival of a street bike emblazoned with a gang symbol, a brand new Lexus, and a Mustang that needed no introduction. Izumo had suggested they all drive in case they caught more than one member of JUNGLE there and they scattered. Three vehicles meant three directions they could chase in.

 

Mikoto dropped his cigarette and ground it into the sidewalk with his boot. “Classy,” he said, staring up at the bar.

 

“I don't know, nothing says sophisticated establishment like a neon silhouette of a naked woman in the window,” Izumo said.

 

Yata sighed. Never let it be said that under their facade of violence and arms dealing, HOMRA wasn't just a bunch of closeted snobs.

 

“So this is where we're gonna find Ace,” he said.

 

Izumo pulled the door open and music immediately poured out to greet them. “Who knows what his real name is but that's what he goes by in JUNGLE. According to our boy at the scrapyard, he comes here most nights to make extra cash. He gave us a pretty vague description so let's hope we can weed him out with his name.”

 

An electric guitar riff blasted them as soon as they were through the door, pounding out of the speakers in each corner of the room. Yata cringed at the sound of static that accompanied it. They probably bought those things when there was still a RadioShack.

 

No one paid them much mind as they moved through the throng of people to reach the bar but it was only a matter of time. Izumo blended in, preferred the anonymity as an information broker, but the frayed edge of Yata's tank top came down more than low enough for his insignia to be visible, and anyone in the place that had gang affiliations would have heard stories about the red haired demon in a long coat who left ashes behind like fingerprints.

 

“What's your poison?” the bartender asked.

 

Mikoto didn't raise his voice over the music but somehow the low growl was audible. “Depends. Are you Ace?”

 

“I identify as pansexual?” the man said, so confused that his answer sounded more like another question.

 

“I don't give a shit what you like to do with cookware, just tell me where to find Ace.”

 

Izumo groaned and shouldered his way between Mikoto and another patron to lean across the bar. “We're looking for a tall brunette kid that runs with JUNGLE, comes here to make extra money.”

 

“Oh, I think I know who you're talking about,” the bartender said, platinum bangs falling into his eyes as he nodded. “Does one of you want to fight him?”

 

_Popular guy,_ Yata thought, confounded by the way they had just been asked if they wanted to fight him the same way the bartender had been asking people if they wanted more drinks. “We all do,” he said.

 

The blonde whistled. “Busy night for him. Okay, pick who's going first and follow me.”

 

“Y'know,” Mikoto said, falling in step behind the bartender when he came around to their side, “I've kicked a lot of asses in my time, but no one's ever been this helpful.”

 

The bartender looked over his shoulder and smiled, giving an appealing view of his nose ring. “What can I say, you're an interesting guy.”

 

“Don't bother,” Yata said, loud enough for only Izumo to hear.

 

Izumo, who was following at the very back to keep an eye on things, chuckled under his breath. “No kidding. Mikoto's hung up on that doctor. Apparently 'he's what wet dreams and morning erections are made of.'”

 

Yata laughed but he found himself having to force it. He hadn't heard from Fushimi since he sent those ridiculous texts while he was drunk. He had followed them with an apology the next afternoon, but they all sat unanswered on his messaging screen. Maybe Doc had seen the one where he called Fushimi pretty and said they shouldn't talk anymore. It was hard to imagine anyone telling Fushimi what to do, never mind him actually  _listening_ , but if they were together then maybe it was out of respect. Yata was glad his sigh was drowned by the hard rock music. The last thing he needed was anyone knowing he missed talking to that glasses-wearing asshole, he felt stupid enough for that already. He didn't even know why he missed him. Holding a conversation with Fushimi was tedious and frustrating. Fushimi was just frustrating in general but for some reason Yata had enjoyed his company.  _That's probably not your upstairs head talking,_ he thought, recalling the flush of heat through his body whenever Fushimi was close to him. 

 

In the back corner of the bar was its two bathrooms, and a third, unmarked door that the bartender opened. Yata was surprised to see him start descending, and shared the unease that he could feel radiating off Izumo. They fell into a reluctant single file behind Mikoto since he had already followed the bartender down.

 

Yata took his phone out and checked his lock screen while bartender stopped and exchanged a few words with the man at the bottom of the stairs. There was an old notification that he needed to install updates. He put it back in his pocket with a mix of disappointment in the lack of a text and disappointment in himself for still expecting one. Everything about Fushimi and Reisi made sense except for the way Fushimi flirted with him. Inexperienced as he was, he still recognized flirting. Either Fushimi was fooling around on Doc or, more likely in Yata's opinion, they weren't exclusive. It didn't matter. He wasn't going to be anyone's side dish and he sure as hell wasn't going to be Fushimi's dirty little secret.

 

“Good luck,” the bartender said, bringing him out of his reverie. “No one has beat him yet.”

 

The greenish hue from the bar gave way to harsh spotlights that were fixed on the center of the underground room, heedless of the shadowed corners where no light reached. It was packed with even more people than the bar above them.

 

The burly man at the bottom of the stairs blocked their path before they could join the crowd. “Check your weapons here, get 'em back when you leave. This is hand to hand only.”

 

“Must be a lucrative business, having a fighting ring down here,” Izumo said, taking the Victory out from under his blazer. He placed it along with the knife from his boot in the plastic bin.

 

Yata's skin crawled at the prospect of being unarmed in JUNGLE territory but if Izumo was going along with it, he guessed it was okay. He laid the Beretta in the bin. As an afterthought, he took the butterfly knife out of his cargo pants that was hardly sharp enough to count as a weapon anymore, but he tossed it in there all the same.

 

“You too, big guy. Take all the weapons out,” the man said, unimpressed by Mikoto's glowering.

 

Mikoto's shoulders sunk and he took the MAC-10 out of one of his inside coat pockets, then the magazine from the other side. He dropped them on top of Izumo and Yata's weapons with a scowl.

 

The bouncer raised an eyebrow. “I know you've got more than that. Give 'em up, buddy.”

 

The lines of Mikoto's frown deepened into pure hatred as he pulled the Glock 18 off his back and threw it into the bin. Yata wasn't sure that the boss was going to leave without putting a few rounds in the man responsible for taking his guns away, however temporary it was.

 

“ _All_ of them.”

 

Mikoto took a hunting knife out of the holster on his thigh, a switchblade from his coat's outer pocket and, after suffering an expectant look from the bouncer, both the fixed blade boot knives from each of his Tims. He turned his empty pockets out with a petulant look that the bouncer met with a smile.

 

“There we go. He's between fights right now, who wants him?”

 

Mikoto shrugged out of his coat and held it out to Izumo. “He's mine.”

 

The crowd parted for the bouncer as he led them to the center of the room. There was a chain link cage about the size of a boxing ring, and the people closest to it began to murmur in anticipation as a new fighter approached. Mikoto stopped at the gate and pulled his white t-shirt over his head. It was already damp with sweat, the basement lacking air conditioning and packed with people. Izumo folded it over his arm with his coat.

 

“Kick his ass for Dewa,” Yata said.

 

Mikoto flashed him a crooked smile as he wrenched the gate open. “You ain't got to tell me that, kid.”

 

He stepped under the lights and Yata heard recognition make its way through the crowd as they pieced together the scarlet hair with the great dragon that spanned his back. Their whispers were no more than a buzz against the music and the much louder thrum of bets being placed, curses being thrown at the new contender for the house fighter, but it all began to blend into the same hushed realization as the whispers spread through the room _._

 

Ace squared off with his fists up, jaw clenching when Mikoto stood across from him with his fingers hooked in the belt loops of his jeans, relaxed as could be. “Come on, red, let's go,” he said. His body shone with sweat from his previous fights but from what Yata could see he still had plenty of energy.

 

Mikoto didn't move. “Do you know who I am?”

 

“You're my opponent so let's _go._ I don't have all night.”

 

“Dewa Masaomi of HOMRA.”

 

Their words probably weren't legible to the crowd, but Yata could hear them from where he stood right up against the chain link barrier with Izumo. The spotlights left no question to the malice in Ace's smile.

 

“What, were you one of his boys? Did I off your dealer?” Ace taunted, bouncing on his heels with renewed vigor.

 

Mikoto huffed out a laugh. “You really must be at the bottom of the food chain for them to have not told you who I am.”

 

Yata swallowed. He wasn't buying the calm facade for a minute. Mikoto was ready to explode and raze everything around him.

 

Word had spread far enough through the crowd that they seemed to know who was standing up there even if Ace didn't, and though their impatience for the fight to start was becoming palpable, there seemed to be a collective decision not to voice their complaints too loudly. Yata's shirt clung to his back as he watched Ace run his mouth, driving nail after nail into his own coffin. It wasn't like when Fushimi took an attitude with the boss. Fushimi had been needed, and he hadn't been gloating about mowing down a member of HOMRA like it was yard work. But the brunette in that cage was tapdancing on every one of Mikoto's buttons.

 

“I guess you're in HOMRA, huh?” Ace said, taking a long step forward to get in Mikoto's face.

 

“Am I in HOMRA?”

 

Mikoto chuckled, and it soon escalated to a deep laugh that resonated with guitar chords echoing from the speakers as another song started. An older rock song, Yata thought.

 

“Kid,” Mikoto snarled as if he had said a much harsher word, “I _am_ HOMRA.”

 

The tremor that ran through Ace's body was met with a crashing of drums from the speakers. There was a flash of red as Mikoto's boot flew off the ground and drove into Ace's abdomen, dead center between his ribs. Saliva flew out of the boy's mouth as he staggered backward. He leaned forward to desperately suck in the air that had just been knocked out of him. A poor choice as Mikoto took one step forward, thrust his knee under Ace's jaw and Yata heard a sickening crack. His fingers never left his belt loops.

 

“Dewa lived,” Mikoto said, sweeping Ace with a foot behind his ankle before he could regain his balance. “And you're gonna live, too.”

 

The hair on the back of Yata's neck stood on end. Izumo was rigid next to him; hell, he had probably sensed the dark turn of Mikoto's intentions long before Yata did. Ace had been down long enough for the match to be called but no one was daring to intervene.

 

Izumo leaned over. “We have company.”

 

“JUNGLE,” Yata muttered without need of confirmation, but getting the boss' attention was going to be a lost cause for now.

 

_Sleep with one eye open, gripping your pillow tight..._

 

“You're gonna live with your pain just like he is,” Mikoto said.

 

_Exit light, enter night_

 

Ace shrieked as Mikoto's body coiled. “L-look man, I was just doing what they told me- OH _god_!”

 

His scream and the accompanying crunch that followed shattered the tense atmosphere into chaos. The bouncer was running into the cage, people were turning away from the grotesque sight of a boy's leg that had just been stomped on with the full brunt of Mikoto's weight, and more importantly to Yata and Izumo, members of JUNGLE came pouring out of the woodwork like cockroaches.

 

Mikoto stopped at the gate, left open by the bouncer trying to tend to Ace. Yata barely heard his words over the cacophony that had taken over the room. “You should talk to Nagare about this. He can help you pick out a wheelchair.”

 

_Dreams of war, dreams of liars, dreams of dragon's fire, and of things that will bite_

 

Something swung toward him, a blur in his peripheral vision, and he barely had time to react on instinct before the wood post connected with the side of his head. It didn't surprise him there were construction materials laying around the dingy basement but _damn_ he was glad that rusted nail sticking out of the end didn't make contact. He used the momentum to his advantage, pulling the JUNGLE lackey toward him and driving an elbow up into his throat.

 

“Yata!”

 

He spun out from under his assailant's arm at the sound of Izumo's voice, raising his hand as soon as he realized the strategist was at the bouncer's station by the stairs. The HOMRA emblem on the grip of his Beretta reflected metallic in the light as it spun toward him. His wrist snapped back with the gun's weight when he caught it, but the small pain was worth it to have the reassuring presence back in his hands. A man the size of a tank went barreling toward Izumo and the strategist dropped him with one hit from the butt of the Victory to the pressure point on the back of his neck. He maneuvered deftly through the crowd to press his back to Yata's.

 

“We're outnumbered,” Izumo said.

 

“They're outgunned,” Yata replied.

 

Mikoto joined them, snapping the magazine into the MAC. “Somebody's got the kid and they're making a run for it. I bet they'll lead us back to Nagare. Izumo, you're the fastest, you follow them and we'll thin out the fuckers down here, make sure they don't get in the way.”

 

A swift glance over the room and Izumo locked on to the figure in all black with a full face motorcycle helmet, making for a service door as quickly as they could while supporting Ace's weight.

 

“They're probably headed for a service elevator, I'm going to take the stairs and cut them off,” Izumo said.

 

Mikoto leveled the gun on someone coming toward them. “Do what you gotta do, just don't fuck up my jacket.”

 

The JUNGLE member who rushed them didn't seem eager to meet the same fate as Ace, as they saw the MAC-10 and hauled ass back the way they came. The previous chaos of the room was nothing compared to it now that guns were involved.

 

“Behind you,” Mikoto warned.

 

Yata had already been saying, “Boss!” as he saw the gleam of gunmetal coming toward Mikoto.

 

They reversed their positions in a seamless movement, Yata twisting under Mikoto's arm as Mikoto sighted the gun over Yata's shoulder, and the rapid popping of the MAC met the bang of the Beretta as they took out the person behind each other. Someone screamed at the sound of gunfire. The woman Yata shot was rolling on the ground, blood gushing between her fingers where she held her wounded shoulder, and Yata stepped right over her to make for the exit. The man Mikoto shot wasn't moving.

 

“Boss, as much as I want to stay and pick these guys off, I think I hear sirens,” Yata called out.

 

Mikoto nodded. “Let's split.”

 

The narrow staircase was already packed with people fighting to get out so they made for the service door that they had seen Ace get carried to. Sure enough, it opened to a service elevator that looked like it had the potential to be more dangerous than the swarm of law enforcement headed their way, but they got on it nonetheless. Mikoto punched the upward pointing arrow, one of the only two buttons on the panel. The other was a red call button that had become the cornerstone of a spiderweb.

 

Yata looked over. Sweat held a few strands of Mikoto's hair against his neck, turning them crimson and left a sheen on his still naked upper body. The puckered edges of his long healed bullet holes were more pronounced in the dingy light of the elevator. Yata raised his eyes to Mikoto's face. He was perfectly calm. His breathing was even as though he didn't just cripple someone, as though they weren't racing the clock to keep him from going back into handcuffs. Yata turned his gaze back to the elevator doors when they opened with a groan. He didn't want to look at that unfazed expression anymore, didn't want to think of what Mikoto had gone through (or, more unsettling still, what he had _done_ ) for this night to seem small in comparison.

 

“I knew you guys would turn up sooner or later.”

 

He heard the words as soon as the elevator doors opened, and met the guy halfway as he swung. This member of JUNGLE was older than most, his skin more weathered and hair more brittle than the ones Yata had seen, but he seemed to have more fighting experience to go with his age. Yata grabbed his arm before he could connect but in the next moment he was wrenched out of the elevator cab and yellow tile was hurtling toward him. His face was the first thing to hit the floor. Over the ringing in his ears, he heard a commotion and then the older man was landing next to him, knocked out cold.

 

Mikoto grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. The hallway spun at first but once the flickering EXIT sign stopped rotating around his field of vision, he guessed he was alright.

 

He didn't complain about Mikoto being the first one through the door. There was a coppery taste in his mouth and his reflexes still felt a little sluggish. No one was waiting on the other side this time. The sirens were deafening outside of the bar, without the interference of music and cries of panic, and he knew it wasn't just his currently oversensitive hearing when he saw Mikoto's jaw tighten.

 

“Are you good to ride your bike?” Mikoto asked.

 

Yata looked down the alley toward the parking lot. “Yeah, I'll be fine.”

 

“Get the hell out of here. Izumo went after our best shot for someone who might lead us back to Nagare, we'll knock JUNGLE around some more another day.”

 

His tongue felt thick, his throat dry as they ran for the front of the bar. The cops were way too close for comfort. He wasn't worried about getting arrested, he had a clean record and, against the rest of HOMRA's weapons, a relatively clean firearm. It was the boss who had spent five years in Dannemora, who had come out with a haunted look in his eyes and a roughly inked tribal flame on his forearm that would later become HOMRA's insignia. There wasn't a cop in Queens who wouldn't love to stand at a podium and be commended for putting Mikoto Suoh back in prison.

 

“Don't go back to the bar,” Mikoto called out as opened his driver's side door. “We'll go our own ways and meet back up in the morning, let the dust settle.”

 

“Roger.”

 

The police cruiser was close enough for its lights to turn the back of the Mustang violet for a moment before Mikoto tore out of the parking lot. Yata straddled the bike and started it up. He kicked off as soon as the engine was running, since his Yamaha was essentially a neon sign that said “I'm a member of HOMRA, please arrest me” if the cops saw it from the side. His skin flashed blue as he pulled around the cruiser turning into the parking lot. Mikoto had gone right, so he went left. It was a good mile or two before he worked up the nerve to check his rearview mirror; the bar had disappeared around the block, and none of the cops had followed him.

 

He let himself relax, finally. His head was throbbing and his leg was on fire but he no longer had any problems that a couple of Aspirin couldn't fix. He tilted his face up to the sky and smiled when a few merciful drops of water hit it. The hot night was in desperate need of some rain. He rode through the steadily increasing drizzle until he saw the first open restaurant that didn't look busy. He had been riding for twenty, maybe even thirty minutes at his best estimate. Long enough that he was in a different law enforcement's precinct by now.

 

_Billy's_ looked like an average burger joint, which he confirmed when he walked in and saw fake leather booths with chrome trim around the bottom. He dropped down in one of them and opened a menu. Halfway down the first page, he got the distinct prickly sensation of being watched. He peered over the top of the laminated pages. One of the only other patrons was staring at him, and the waitress gave him a few sideways glances while she cleaned the table next to him. She still looked wary when she came over to ask for his order.

 

“Just your number three with an orange pop, please,” he said.

 

She gave him a tense smile. “Sure thing. I'll be right back with that pop.”

 

He got to his feet once she walked away and went to the bathroom tucked into the corner of the restaurant. It was a single room with  _Fellas_ on the door right across from the one that read  _Ladies._ He gave a quick knock before turning the handle. It was vacant, luckily.

 

The motion activated lights flicked on as he locked the door behind him. He turned to the mirror above the sink. “Shit,” he muttered, immediately finding the reason for the staring. A cut ran through his eyebrow with a trail of blood leading down to his eye where it was caked in his lashes. He barely remembered blinking away something wet. Everything had happened too fast to pick out such a small detail, but there was no missing it now, and he knew why he made for such a startling sight. He turned the faucet on and set to scrubbing his face. At least the cut must not have been too bad, since the bleeding had already stopped. It stung when he splashed water over it and left a pinkish tint on the paper towel he dried off with, but there was no fresh blood when he checked the mirror a final time.

 

His pop was at his table, sitting on a folded napkin when he returned. He took several long gulps as soon as he sat down. The waitress seemed a little more at ease when she brought his food, though he saw relief on her face when she asked if he needed anything else and he said she could go ahead and leave the check. He didn't blame her. It wasn't a bad part of town, but someone walking in the door bloody and disheveled just spelled trouble.  _I was just running from the cops,_ he thought, unable to deny that there was some validity in the cautious stares from earlier. 

 

He didn't consider himself a bad person, he reasoned, finishing his burger. He was an okay person who just did bad things. There was definitely worse out there. He shuddered as Yukari's face accompanied the thought. Yeah, way worse.

 

He was picking at the last of his fries when his phone started ringing on the table. He peered down at the ID, but the number wasn't saved in his phone. Huh. He had all the members of HOMRA in his contacts as well as his few family members. The area code was Manhattan, he was pretty sure. He picked it up and chewed his lip in consideration.

 

JUNGLE was a bunch of techies before they started cage fighting and throwing punches; maybe it was one of them and if he answered it, they could run a trace and get his location.

 

That wouldn't make much sense. He wasn't especially hard to find.

 

He sighed and swiped the green button. “Yo.”

 

“Hello, Misaki.”

 

He almost dropped the phone into the ice in his empty glass. Warmth flooded his body, erasing the fatigue and pain, if only for a moment as the sound of Fushimi's voice wrapped around him. “Hey, Sunshine.” Then he remembered the texts and the warmth crept up his neck into his face.  _I'm never drinking again,_ he promised himself on the spot.

 

“I dropped my phone. I didn't get it replaced until today.”

 

“At midnight?” Yata said, the incredulous words leaving him before he thought to just be grateful that Fushimi wasn't mentioning the texts.

 

Fushimi clicked his tongue and Yata idly wondered when he had started finding that noise attractive. “I got it back on my way to the hospital this morning. I just got home.”

 

“Oh, right. Yeah.” He stuffed enough money into the black folder with the check for there to be a generous tip and made for the door to get some fresh air. “How was your day?” God, what a mundane question. He leaned against the outside wall of _Billy's_ with a hand over his eyes.

 

“It improved once I had a phone again.” There was a gurgling noise in the back ground. A coffee maker, more than likely.

 

“Missed me that much?” Yata joked.

 

“Yes, terribly. I feared my self esteem would wither away and die without someone to call me pretty.”

 

Damn it. So he wasn't going to be let off the hook for that. “I'm sorry about-”

 

“Come over.”

 

“Wha...huh?”

 

“I'm tired, I don't feel like talking on the phone. Just come over if you're not going to bed or something. I'll send you my address.”

 

Yata was still making incoherent sounds when his phone beeped to signal the end of the call. Motherfucker hung up on him  _again._ He stared at the screen until a message popped up from the same unsaved number. It was what Fushimi promised, an address and nothing more. He continued to stare until he thought he might have done some damage when he hit his head. A few hours ago he had been resigned to never hearing from Fushimi again (and even worse, that had bothered him) and now he was being invited to his apartment at freaking midnight. 

 

A million questions buzzed around in his mind. What about Doc? Was Fushimi going to ridicule him endlessly about those texts? Was Doc waiting there to beat him up for calling his boyfriend pretty? He ruled the last one out, at least. Doctors had to take a vow, first do no harm and all that. He didn't think he was in any danger from Dr. Munakata. He tried to tell himself he hadn't decided, as he opened the address on a map. He tried to tell himself he hadn't decided, as he committed the location of the building to memory and sat on his bike.

 

He tried to tell himself he hadn't decided, like he always did, and he went straight to Fushimi, like he always had.

 

The rain got steadier the closer he got to Manhattan. By the time he stopped in front of the Scepter apartment building, his clothes were soaked through. Geez, of course it was a ritzy building, he shouldn't have expected any less. It was on par with where they had met Hakumai-to, though the glamour of this place was more understated, less stylized in its architecture. He used the passcode Fushimi had sent him on the way over to get into the lobby area.  _Welcome, Lawson Real Estate Co.,_ the screen read as the lock disengaged. He snickered. Not the official visitor's code, then. 

 

At least Scepter's elevator was a lot nicer than the other one he had been in that night. He hit the button for the fourth floor and it gave only the slightest jolt when he reached his destination. Fushimi's was the last door on the right.

 

He took a deep breath and knocked. There must have been something wrong with him, to be more nervous about seeing Fushimi than he had been about getting arrested. A deadbolt turned on the other side, the knob twisted and Fushimi opened the door. Fushimi didn't say anything, just stepped aside for him to come in.

 

“I didn't think I was going to hear from you again,” he admitted.

 

Fushimi closed the door and faced him. He was wearing that damn shirt from the time they had dinner, baring his shoulder and a long stretch of collarbone. “Why?”

 

“Well I didn't know about Doc before, and I figured if either that or my stupid texts weren't enough, what you saw at HOMRA might have been.” The last part wasn't completely true, the thought hadn't crossed his mind before, but he wanted to throw one thing in there that wasn't entirely his fault.

 

Fushimi leaned back against the door and raised an eyebrow. His bangs were tucked behind one ear, letting the light wink off his earrings. “What part of trauma surgeon doesn't compute to you? That wasn't the first time I've seen internal bleeding and it will hardly be the last.”

 

“Yeah, but what about-”

 

“As for your texts, you should know by now I'm not bothered that you aren't particularly bright.”

 

“Wow, _thanks_.”

 

Fushimi pushed himself away from the door to stand in front of Yata, the distant rumble of thunder covering the sound of his footsteps on the marble floor of the entryway. “And Reisi, even I am at a loss for how you thought that one up.”

 

Yata blinked and shifted, only then becoming aware of the puddle he was leaving with his dripping hair and clothes. “The day you operated on Dewa, you said you were going home with him.”

 

“And?”

 

“And that usually implies...you know. Stuff.”

 

“Oh,” Fushimi said, with a sudden look of understanding. “Oh, you _are_ that stupid.”

 

“Hey!”

 

Fushimi reached back to open the door. He pointed out of it and Yata thought he was telling him to leave, but there was only enough room for him to look where Fushimi was pointing, he couldn't actually get out the door. He stood next to Fushimi and followed his finger to a door down the hallway.

 

“I came home with him because I live here, dumbass, and he lives right there.”

 

Oh.

 

_Oh._

 

Fushimi was right. He really was an idiot.

 

“So you guys aren't together.”

 

“If my life depended on taking his dick, I would rather commit seppuku with a rusted butterknife.” Fushimi closed the door again and, in a rare act of kindness for what little dignity Yata was still holding on to, didn't make him say anything further on the subject. “You're already here so you might as well come further than the front door.”

 

Yata's heart did a Thing as he followed him further into the apartment. As dismayed as he was to admit it, he was happy that Fushimi and Doc weren't together. He didn't know what to do with that feeling. He put it aside for the time being, letting his attention shift to the large space that opened up beyond the entryway. He let out a low whistle.

 

“Nice place,” he said.

 

“I guess. My father picked it.”

 

A black leather sectional faced the windows, which consisted of an entire wall of glass. There was no TV. A desk took up most of the wall diagonally across from the windows, with a keyboard in the center of three monitors, and books were stacked on every available inch of space. There was a stack of papers next to the keyboard and another on the coffee table. After looking around the living room and glancing at the kitchen, he determined there wasn't a flat surface in the place that didn't have at least one empty coffee mug on it. That was the only sign of disorder in the apartment. It was full, overflowing with what he could only imagine was the burden of a third year college student and a medical student at that, but there was organization among the clutter.

 

“Did you ever go get your stitches taken out?” Fushimi asked with the doubtful tone of someone who knew the answer.

 

“I've been kinda busy.”

 

“Tch. You shouldn't let them scab over, they aren't dissolving stitches. They need to be removed.” Yata's mumbled excuse was lost in a thunderclap. Fushimi rolled his eyes. “Sit down.”

 

He went over and sat on the leather sectional. It had too low of a back to really sit against, so he leaned his elbows on his knees instead. The room flashed white, followed almost immediately by more thunder. He was glad he wasn't out riding. The wind had picked up, he could hear it whistling against the glass.

 

Fushimi came over with his hair thrown into a messy ponytail and blue gloves on. “Pants off.”

 

“Um.” There was no reason not to remove them, since it was impossible to get to his stitches otherwise. No reason other than him being alone with Fushimi in his apartment and his mind rapidly detouring somewhere besides getting his stitches removed. “Yeah.”

 

If he thought his own reaction to the request was awkward, it was nothing compared to the effort of getting his soaked cargo pants down. They weren't tight fitting which helped but they were still sodden and heavy. His stomach flipped when Fushimi knelt down and took the waistband in hand. _Fuck, I'm not ready for this,_ he thought, willing his body not to betray him as Fushimi worked them off his hips. All the teasing remarks and lingering glances had prepared him for Fushimi taking full advantage of the opportunity. To his surprise, it was with clinical indifference that Fushimi pulled his pants down to his knees before picking up a wallet sized kit he had brought over from the desk.

 

“I can't believe it's healed so well, given how careless you've been,” Fushimi said, nudging him down to lay on his stomach.

 

The vulnerable position made him anxious, but he had put Dewa's life in Fushimi's hands, he could stand to be in a position that he wouldn't ordinarily be comfortable in. He propped his chin on folded arms, feeling the cool touch of what he guessed was antiseptic on the back of his thigh.

 

“I didn't mean for you to have to take your work home with you,” Yata said. He felt an odd tugging sensation in his leg.

 

“It's useful practice.”

 

Yata hummed and turned his head to watch the rain. Maybe it was because Fushimi, for all his faults, had already assumed that trustworthy aura of a doctor, but he was quick to forget about the embarrassment over feeling exposed. Fushimi was different when you placed medical tools in his hands. There was no teasing or manipulation, just a cold, determined drive to complete his task. In no time he was telling Yata to sit up and he felt gauze move against the back of his thigh when he did.

 

“Sit up here to do the other ones, I feel bad having you kneeling on the floor in your own apartment,” he mumbled, turning sideways on the couch.

 

Fushimi smirked. “Maybe I should have you kneeling in my apartment instead.”

 

Yata flushed all the way to his ears. He couldn't have been more glad when Fushimi sat sideways on the couch to face him and started working on the stitches in the entry wound, because that sharp tongue would be silenced for a few minutes. In nothing but his boxers there would be no hope of concealing his reaction if Fushimi kept talking like that. He watched the black sutures slide free between latex clad fingers. All kidding aside, he had healed better than he expected, no longer than he gave his leg a break after he got out of the hospital. Counting the time he was admitted, it was going on a couple of weeks since he was shot. It would be awhile before the wound scarred over but it wasn't open anymore and it didn't hurt when Fushimi pulled the stitches out. There was that weird tugging where scabs had attempted to form, but no pain.

 

“Keep these clean,” Fushimi advised, snipping and removing the last one.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” Yata followed his hand when he dropped the sutures on a napkin on the coffee table. “Really, though. Thanks for this.”

 

Fushimi pulled each corner of the napkin in and went to dispose of it. From somewhere else in the apartment, the kitchen from what Yata could tell, he said, “I wasn't going to let my hard work go to waste.”

 

Yata paused where he had been pulling his pants back up. He mulled the words over before zipping them and settling back into his previous place on the couch. “You were in the operating room that night?”

 

Fushimi took his former position, as well, tucking one foot under himself to face Yata on the couch. His gloves had been discarded along with the sutures, leaving his hands to glow white when lightning flashed outside. “I stitched up the incision on the back of your leg.”

 

The rain was finally coming down in sheets but Yata wasn't watching it anymore. He found himself unable to look away from Fushimi, who he had been tied to for even longer than he realized, who had left his mark on Yata's body before Yata had seen him for the first time.

 

Fushimi touched his face and he was glad the storm rendered his gasp inaudible. It was a light touch above his eye, nothing sensual or remarkable, but it forced the air out of his lungs a little faster anyway. “What happened?” Fushimi asked, his raspy voice almost lost in the rain pounding against the glass.

 

“Got in a fight,” he said, trying with all he had to tear his eyes from Fushimi's and failing, and they were so goddamn blue.

 

Fushimi traced the length of Yata's brow with his thumb. “Stupid.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

Fushimi lowered his hand from his face, slid it under his wet hair to rest against his neck. “Your heartbeat is erratic again.”

 

“Saruhiko,” he breathed, and he took his next breath against Fushimi's lips.

 

He didn't know if the hand on the back of his neck pulled him in first or if it was his reaching for Fushimi's bare shoulder, or maybe they just met halfway, all he knew was reason going out from under him as he fell into Fushimi's gravity. Fushimi kissed him breathless. He kissed him until Yata had to gasp for air and he didn't relent even then, his tongue gliding slick and hot into Yata's mouth. Yata's eyes were closed yet he was dizzy. Had kissing ever felt like this before, he wondered, but he knew that it hadn't. He tentatively met Fushimi's tongue with his own. Fushimi made a soft sound against his lips that raced through his blood faster than adrenaline, hotter in his stomach than a shot of the strongest liquor.

 

“Saruhiko,” he repeated, when neither of them had any breath left to steal from each other.

 

Fushimi leaned his forehead against Yata's, clearly not ready to go far from his lips just yet. “Yeah?”

 

“If you're not with Doc, then be with me.”

 

Fushimi's fingers curled restlessly against the side of his neck. “I'm in the middle of medical school, I don't have much time to offer you.”

 

“I'm in the middle of a gang war, I know the feeling.”

 

Fushimi's face was tilted back just far enough for Yata to see his lip quirk up on one side. “I'm kind of fucked up.”

 

“Be fucked up with me.”

 

Fushimi kissed him again, and he was pretty sure he had his answer.

 

 

 

_**Genzai (Japanese): the present** _

 


	9. Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: Inner-angst, masochism, sort of fluff, unhealthy habits, the usual awkwardness  
> \---------------
> 
> What do we want?
> 
> Good writing and solid plot development!
> 
> What did I post?
> 
> Nonsensical fluff and self-indulgent interactions between minor characters!
> 
> (Also, I stole the arson/witnesses convo from a text post I saved to my Gunpowder board on Pinterest, I'm trash please dispose of me)

_When did you crawl under my skin?_ he thought as Fushimi kissed him again.

 

Fushimi's tongue was stroking along his again, leaving a path of fire that made Yata want to burn alive. The hand on Yata's neck had slid into his hair and tilted his head back to give Fushimi access, and he went willingly. He didn't know if the sound in his ears was the rain or his own heartbeat anymore. It was insistent and demanding like the feverish press of Fushimi's lips. He leaned up into the kiss, socks sliding against leather as he pushed onto his knees on the couch.

 

He found himself a little higher than Fushimi in his new position and a little too satisfied that it was now the taller man tilting his head back to meet him. Fushimi didn't seem to mind. He just snaked his arms around Yata and pulled him closer until Yata had no choice but to lose his balance or put his knees on either side of Fushimi. He took the second option, heat spreading dangerously far through his body as he straddled Fushimi's slender waist.  
  


Then Fushimi pulled away with a filthy, wet sound. “Stop putting your weight on your leg,” he said. “Just relax, you aren't _that_ heavy.”

 

“Oh shut up!”

 

He still did as Fushimi suggested, and immediately regretted it as he sat fully on his lap. The contact was heaven and hellfire all at the same time with Fushimi's arms around him, his body underneath him and his face so close Yata would barely have to move to kiss him again. Fushimi's hands slid up his sides as he pulled them together, rucking his shirt up and letting the cool air wash over his lower back. _Goddamn tease,_ Yata thought, returning the gesture and pulling Fushimi the short distance forward by his shirt. He was sure he felt Fushimi smirking against his mouth when they met.

 

Fushimi was worse than under his skin; he was part of it, seared there like a brand.

 

Before he realized Fushimi's hand had traveled down to his waistband, he felt the sudden absence of his gun followed by the muted _thump_ of it hitting the couch. He started, not used to someone just grabbing his Beretta like a water gun and tossing it aside. He didn't _want_ to get used to that. Sometimes the presence of his gun was the only thing that kept him from panicking at the thought of JUNGLE and having it removed with such ease made him physically jolt.

 

A coppery taste flooded his mouth and he found his teeth pulling away from Fushimi's lip where he'd bitten down in surprise. He almost jumped again when Fushimi made the first unfiltered sound Yata had ever heard from him; a soft, strangled gasp accompanied by the slightest upward press of his hips. Yata forgot all about his gun for a second because _shit,_ that noise.

 

“Careful, Misaki,” Fushimi said, fingers curling around the edge of Yata's shirt. “Keep doing things like that and I might fuck you.”

 

That didn't help his mind recover from its blanked out state, but when it finally did he said, “You wouldn't. Not if I didn't want to.” _I may not know much about you, but I know aren't as bad of a person as you pretend to be._ He entertained that Fushimi wasn't pretending, that he thought he was as dark as he made himself out to be, but either way Yata didn't buy it.

 

“You feel like you want to.”

 

He pulled back enough to look at Fushimi for the first time since they started kissing in earnest, the city light outside the window letting him see Fushimi's blown pupils, nearly overtaking the shocking blue of his irises. Then Fushimi's words registered with him.

 

He felt like he wanted to? Surely Fushimi wasn't that intuned with his feelings yet. Besides, he wanted to (he couldn't even hope to deny it at that point) but maybe not yet.

 

There was a throb of protest between his legs for pulling away from Fushimi and he suddenly understood.

 

Fushimi made that lovely imitation of a laugh that Yata could have appreciated if he wasn't mortified. “Are you embarrassed?” Fushimi teased.

 

“N-No! I just...need to go home!” He tried to scramble off Fushimi's lap ( _ow goddammit my leg is_ not _up for this)_ only for the hands on his sides to hold him in place.

 

“Stop before you hurt yourself, stupid.” When Yata continued to struggle, Fushimi grabbed his chin and forced Yata to look down at him. “So you're hard. I don't see the issue here.”

 

_I'm hard from making out, like I'm fucking thirteen again?!_

 

_I'm hard, and I want you, and I'm not ready for that._

 

_I want you. I want you so bad._

 

Every truthful answer sounded worse than the last. He squeezed his eyes shut, knowing he wouldn't be able to cool down if he had to look at Fushimi sitting debauched underneath him. “It's late. I'm not up for things to go any further right now.”

 

“Then get off me.”

 

The flat words stung him more than he expected. They echoed with the words of so many people before him ( _why are you such a prude? Why be in a relationship if you don't want to have sex? What's wrong with you?)_ but he shut his ears and his mind against those memories as he slid sideways to sit on the couch. He kept his eyes trained in his lap, on his traitorous lower body as he returned his gun to his waistband. He was still hard, aching for Fushimi's touch again even as the man in question stood up and disappeared down the hallway.

 

His right leg was sore from all the moving around. He had to sit back down on the couch after his first attempt to get up, grimacing at the stiffness. It was a foreign sensation to have his stitches out after having them there for a couple weeks, like his wounds would just come back open at a moment's notice. His stomach flipped at the sound of bare feet returning from the hallway. He stood up before Fushimi could join him, trying to will the redness from his cheeks. At least the artificial light from outside wouldn't reveal much of his complexion. It was probably a weird green color from the sign on the corporate building across the street.

 

“Hold still,” Fushimi said, stopping in front of him.

 

Yata eyed the small bottle in his hand. “What's that?”

 

“Liquid stitches.” He dotted some on his finger, gloved as freaking usual like he was actually at the hospital.

 

“Oh. Thanks,” he said as Fushimi brushed some of the liquid over his eyebrow. “Look, about just now...”

 

“Tch. You don't have to explain yourself.”

 

Yata looked down, free to move once Fushimi pulled his hand away. “Right.”

 

“I usually go to bars and pick someone up if I want sex. That's what I would continue doing if sex was that much of a priority,” Fushimi said, looking out the window to watch the storm. “I want to be around you because you interest me. If you want to hold on to your chastity belt a little longer, I don't care.”

 

Yata fought a smile at the surprised sound Fushimi made when arms were suddenly encircling him, when Yata's head planted against his chest. “Hey, stop that,” Fushimi muttered.

 

“I had to break it to you, but you're really not such a bad guy.”

 

“Go home.”

 

Yata turned away to hide his grin, and the belated embarrassment at his own sudden display of affection. He couldn't help it. His emotions always rose up unbidden and he acted on them without thinking. He didn't regret it much this time, not when he finally caught the living ice sculpture Saruhiko Fushimi off guard. He couldn't quite shake that grin as he pulled his shoes on. It was such a tiny, insignificant thing to be happy about, Fushimi's indifference to something that had frustrated every one of his few partners in the past, but he _was_ happy.

 

“I'll see you around, Sunshine,” he said from the doorway.

 

“Probably not much. I have to study for exams,” Fushimi said, silhouetted against the windows.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Later,” he called out, and shut the door.

 

 

 

_Two Days Earlier_

 

Reisi never left his fingerprints in the apartment.

 

He always caught himself before he sat his coffee mug down, or let condensation drip from a water bottle. His coat was never left on the back of a chair or his shoes by the door. When he chanced to sit down, the stool was always returned to the exact place he took it from. Having dealt with his own obsessive behavior for years, he had a keen eye for anything out of place. He never let the apartment become aware of his presence.

 

Because the apartment belonged to Fushimi, and surely it would reject him if he left any visible sign that Fushimi had allowed someone inside of his own free will. It might give the impression that he didn't mind Reisi looking after him. More alarming still, it might suggest that Saruhiko Fushimi _enjoyed_ the company of something that wasn't virtual or caffeinated, and rock his isolated world down to the foundation. They couldn't have that.

 

Reisi rinsed his empty coffee mug in the sink, dried it and returned it to the cabinet. He sighed as he turned all the handles to face out without really deciding to. Fushimi had gone to the bathroom awhile ago, he should have been back already. He had been looking at his phone when he went and Reisi figured he was replying to the texts from last night. He turned the last wayward mug to match the others and closed the cabinet. Fushimi probably just wanted privacy to answer the messages without Reisi around. Reisi had carried him back down the hall to his own apartment the night before when he realized Fushimi wasn't waking up anytime soon, and he was pushing his luck already by having come to check on him.

 

A clattering sound from the hallway ended his debate. “Fushimi?” he called.

 

No response.

 

He knocked on the bathroom door and heard a vague muttering that he interpreted as permission to come in. Consent or not, he opened it slowly, unsure what state he would find the boy in. Fushimi's willingness to allow Reisi into his space was fragile at best and he didn't want to break what little trust he had managed to build between them. Things that seemed trivial to him were much more important to Fushimi, and he tried to keep that in mind as he pushed the door the rest of the way open.

 

“Bastard,” Fushimi hissed, and Reisi knew it wasn't directed at him.

 

“Your father?”

 

Fushimi, who stood with his hands braced on the edge of the sink and his head dipped forward, only made a low sound in his throat by way of an answer. He had discarded his hoodie from the night before, leaving his upper body bare and the straining of the lean muscle in his arms evident where he gripped the white marble. If it were anyone else, Reisi would have put a reassuring hand on their shoulder, embraced them if they were close enough. He knew better than to try that as he walked past Fushimi to look for the source of the earlier noise. Fushimi didn't like to be touched on a good day, if Reisi reached for him now he might get a straight shaving razor to the throat.

 

He found the cell phone in the bottom of the shower. Reisi turned it over in his hands to find a spiderweb of cracks across the screen and a few pieces that had broken all the way through when it hit the wall, sticking up at jagged angles from the once smooth surface. He held the lock button but the ruined screen stayed black. Anger welled in him at the thought of what Niki had said to make Fushimi hurl his phone across the bathroom so hard that the entire thing was shot.

 

“I could take you to get a replacement if you don't feel like driving,” Reisi said, walking over to stand a few paces away.

 

Fushimi raised his head and glared out from under his bangs, wild and unruly from sleep. He snatched his phone out of Reisi's hand. “I don't need your help. I have class today, I'll deal with this tomorrow.”

 

“If you need to make a call or-”

 

“Just go home. Get out.”

 

Reisi left without another word. His silence wasn't out of anger, just understanding of the futility in trying to say anything else. Fushimi had withdrawn too far into himself to reach with fickle reassurances that he would be okay, when Reisi knew damn well he couldn't do anything about the man who tormented him, empty promises that things would get better when really, Reisi didn't know how to help him. He tried not to think about what state Fushimi dissolved into when there was no one there to see him. He wanted to think that the tears fell and the frustrated screams tore out of his throat once he was alone, rather than the far more painful alternative that nothing changed because Niki had truly left him hollow.

 

He closed Fushimi's door on his way out, and left nothing behind.

 

 

 

 

_Present  
_

 

Mikoto sighed. “So, you lost him.”

 

Izumo held up a finger. “I'm saying that in lieu of capture, I obtained valuable information before the target was no longer accessible.”

 

“So you lost him,” Tatara concluded.

 

Izumo poured himself a finger of scotch. Given the events of last night, no one questioned him for indulging at two in the afternoon. He had already decided the bar would be “closed for repairs” that day anyway, citing that he needed a break after his city-wide car chase the night before. More specifically, _his_ car chasing a modified street bike that left his Lexus in a cloud of exhaust fumes. His knowledge of the city had let him keep up for longer than most would have managed but the masked rider got away in the end.

 

Yata spun on his barstool, listening to the rain hammer against the windows on the other side of the heavy curtains. It had subsided for a little the night before, enough for him to get home from Fushimi's apartment in a drizzle rather than a downpour, but it never stopped completely. He flushed at the memory of lips against his, the feeling of Fushimi's hand on his neck still so firmly present that he almost expected to find fingerprints there.

 

Tatara got up to go to the bathroom with a mumbled comment about his friends being idiots. Yata half listened to Mikoto and Izumo bicker about the best way to clean the SCAR, the rest of his attention sucked into memory by the sound of the rain, his thoughts orbiting around a world of white skin and stormy eyes. He drummed his fingers against his phone through his pocket. He wasn't expecting any texts but part of him thought Fushimi was only going off grid to see if Yata meant it when he said he didn't mind them not having a lot of time for each other. Shit, the opposite, he would be pissed if Fushimi threw away the small fortune it must have taken to put him through medical school just to slack off and talk to him. He could wait. It wasn't like he didn't have JUNGLE to keep him busy.

 

The muffled _thunk_ of the lock catching the doorjamb as someone tried to open the door jolted him back to the present. He dropped off the barstool and onto his feet with a hand on his gun.

 

“Boss?” he asked, knowing Mikoto was the only one in the position to see through the small window in the front door.

 

Mikoto didn't answer him, but the way his lips turned up didn't seem to suggest danger. He uncoiled onto his feet with predatory grace and crossed the distance to the door in a few long strides. He disengaged the lock, flipped the deadbolt and opened the heavy wooden door.

 

“Come on in.”

 

Yata heard a familiar baritone. “I don't want to trouble you if-”

 

“Hey, I said I owed you a drink. Get your ass in here.”

 

Dr. Munakata didn't refuse a second time. He followed Mikoto inside and stomped his boots on the mat in front of the door, rain dripping from the hair on either side of his face to run down the collar of his navy pea coat.

 

“Hey, Doc,” Yata greeted, more thankful than ever that his assumptions about his relationship with Fushimi had been corrected, or man would this have been awkward.

 

“Mr. Yata, you look well. I heard your stitches were removed without complications.”

 

Yata flushed. The pleasant smile on Dr. Munakata's face gave him no hint as to whether or not he knew the _rest_ of what happened after he got his stitches taken out. He wanted to know but at the same time he was glad the doctor's face betrayed so little. There was no telling how the boss would react to him messing around with the “punk kid” he met after JUNGLE tried to take out Dewa. He was going to tell Mikoto, just not yet. He was working up to it.

 

Mikoto leaned against the bar. “What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

 

“I was lending my assistance at the Flushing Medical Center, they're rather understaffed at the moment,” Dr. Munakata said, leaning next to him. “I was on my way back when the weather became unsuitable for travel.”

 

“Stay as long as you like. What's your poison?” Izumo asked.

 

“It's rather early in the day for me. Just a gingerale, please.”

 

_He's kind of pretentious but he's so polite,_ Yata thought from where he watched, a couple stools down from the doctor.  _I can't imagine Fushimi deliberately wanting to do his residency with someone this nice._

 

Dr. Munakata's eyes wandered further down the bar. “That's a fine piece of equipment you have there,” he said calmly.

 

Mikoto followed his gaze to the disassembled SCAR that Izumo had been cleaning when he showed up. “Oh. That.” In his excitement to see Doc, he seemed to have forgotten it was even there.

 

“May I?”

 

Izumo gave his permission while Mikoto was still watching Dr. Munakata with a dumbstruck expression as he reached for a piece of the gun. Yata expected a curious examination, but then he was reaching for another piece and locking the two together in a fluid movement that he had only ever seen from the boss. The rest of the gun came together in a series of decisive clicks until the doctor snapped the clip into place and raised it to test the weight in his arms, barrel pointed across the bar, directed away from his companions.

 

Tatara whistled, having returned from the bathroom in time to see the display. “You know your way around a gun.”

 

“I know the basics,” Dr. Munakata said.

 

Izumo didn't acknowledge it other than the slightest raise of his eyebrows as he slid a gingerale across the bar. Mikoto, for lack of a better phrase, seemed to have broken. He had long since forgotten his cigarette, and if he noticed the ash falling on his outstretched leg or the filter burning away between his fingers, it wasn't enough to wipe the stupid awestruck look off his face. His eyes followed Dr. Munakata after he sat the gun down and came to collect his drink. They just seemed stuck on the doctor, actually, and Yata started to wonder if the boss was going to propose right then and there.

 

“Want a towel to dry off with?” Yata asked.

 

“I'm sorry, I do seem to be leaving quite a puddle on this beautiful hardwood,” Dr. Munakata said, looking down at his soaked boots.

 

Izumo chuckled, taking an empty bottle of tequila off the shelf to replace it with a full one. “I run a bar, these floors have withstood a lot worse. We just don't want you catching a cold on our account.”

 

“I'm sure my immune system has withstood the same, if not more than these floors so I'll be alright but thank you for the concern.” Reisi leaned back on his elbows, drawing his coat so tightly over his broad chest that it seemed in danger of popping a couple stitches. “Tell me, Suoh, what do you get up to when you aren't troubling your friends here?”

 

“That's his sole purpose in life,” Tatara said, sticking an umbrella in his glass.

 

“I get people what they need,” Mikoto said.

 

Reisi chuckled. “I'm well aware of your profession, I was just curious if you had any hobbies besides selling weapons and lighting things on fire.”

 

“Hey,” Mikoto said. “People say I just have my own way of lighting up a room.”

 

Tatara almost spit out his drink. “Yeah, it's called _arson_.”

 

“And those people are called witnesses,” Izumo added.

 

A thunderclap drew Yata's eyes to the covered windows again. He wondered where the masked rider from College Point was, what they were doing. Were they sitting around with the rest of JUNGLE like he was with his own gang? Were they shedding tears for a member that would never walk again? _No,_ he told himself firmly. It didn't matter. Ace had tried to take Dewa out, he deserved what he got. He closed his eyes like that would block out his own memory of panicked cries and the crunch of bone. He heard Doc and Tatara laughing over something and wondered what the exchange would be like if Doc had been in that basement to see the cage fight.

 

_No,_ he told himself again, forcing his eyes open.  _The point of this war isn't to be better men than JUNGLE. It's to win._

 

He couldn't listen to the idle chatter around him anymore. He got down from the stool and threw a hand up. “I'm headed home, I'll catch you guys later.”

 

Mikoto was too busy talking to Doc to notice he'd said anything, Izumo waved him goodbye, and Tatara sat his empty glass behind the bar before raising a hand as well. “I think I'm going to do the same. Wait up, Yata.”

 

Yata stood by the door until Tatara had plucked his umbrella off the coat rack and followed him outside. He didn't protest when Tatara opened the umbrella over both of them as they walked. He had been in enough rain lately to last him a damn lifetime. Though, now that he was thinking about Tatara... “Hey, Tatara, don't you live the other way?”

 

Tatara shrugged, twirling the umbrella. “Maybe I just wanted to spend time with you away from those knuckleheads.”

 

“You're tipsy.”

 

“I'm curious! What have you been up to? You don't just cease to exist when you're not with us, unlike Mikoto I acknowledge that you have a life outside of HOMRA.”

 

Yata rubbed the back of his head as they stopped at a crosswalk. “You know. Stuff.”

 

The blinker on the crosswalk turned Tatara's silver cross pendant red, and then green for an instant before they made their way across the street. He had always wondered if Tatara was religious or if it was just part of his quirky fashion sense. Tatara was giving him a knowing side-eye at the moment and he was preparing himself for getting called out even before Tatara said, “I know someone avoiding a conversation when I hear them. Spill it, short stack.”

 

“There's a guy,” Yata said sheepishly.

 

“Okaaaay.”

 

They stopped under the awning of a bake shop, and he blinked up at Tatara's expectant stare. “I started seeing a guy.”

 

“There's got to be more to it than that. There's, like, two straight people in the whole gang. HOMRA is _literally_ flaming. I would be more surprised if you said you were seeing a girl. Supportive, of course! But surprised. Anyway, tell me more about the guy.”

 

Yata stared at the croissants in the window without really seeing them. All he saw was the hazy memory of some asshole taking his vitals after he woke up from being shot, sharpening into the image of the same man walking into the room when he took Minoru to the hospital for his fever. “It's the doctor who saved Masaomi.”

 

Tatara's face in their shared reflection on the glass went blank. “The one Mikoto almost punched?”

 

“The one a lot of people probably almost punch.”

 

They turned away from the bake shop to continue walking, and Tatara's laughter rang out high and clear above the pattering rain and the buzz of conversations around them. “That's perfect. Please wait until I'm around to tell the boss, I have got to see Mikoto's face.”

 

“You don't think it's a bad idea?”

 

Tatara twirled the umbrella again. “Life's too short for good ideas. I know you have your head in the game with JUNGLE, I don't think I have to warn you about getting distracted. I'll let someone boring like Izumo do that.” He smiled over at Yata. “When are you going to see him again?”

 

His darkened mood from the bar didn't stand a chance under Tatara's sunny influence. He found his heart a little lighter as he answered, “I don't know, I've got to leave him be for right now so he can study for exams.”

 

“Did he tell you to?”

 

“I mean, he said I wouldn't hear from him much because of them. I'm sure he needs to concentrate.”

 

“Take it from someone who has known a braniac for awhile, someone needs to go check for signs of life every now and then. Go see him soon. Even if it's just to drop a box of doughnuts on the stoop, ring the doorbell and leave. He'll be grateful whether he admits it or not.”

 

_Or not, most likely._ “I don't want to smother him.”

 

“Yata.” Tatara turned and placed a hand on his shoulder, his smile softened into something more serious. “I was just a scrawny thief that got bulled for being a priss, and then beat up in highschool for being a pickpocket, who got lucky enough to meet a couple guys who were scarier than me. I'm not much smarter than your average person but I've known people who are. It's easy for a genius to get caught up in their own head. There's a lot up there, you know.”

 

Yata returned his smile without really knowing what about his words helped so much. “Thanks, Tatara.”

 

“Glad to help. Now, I've been a responsible adult for the day and I'm going home to make a martini.”

 

His umbrella melted into the crowd after just seconds, the sidewalk packed at the peak of the afternoon rush. Tatara's words lingered with him as he finished walking the last block to his apartment. Maybe checking on Fushimi wouldn't be such a bad idea.

 

 

He made it a grand total of a day before he was exiting the coffee shop two buildings down from the Scepter apartments.  _I'm weak,_ he decided as the motion activated doors to the lobby opened. It was evening, the tail end of business hours, but not late enough for them to be closed and him have to use the code Fushimi gave him. He stared down at the cup in his hand when the elevator doors opened to the fourth floor. It had one of the little plastic sticky-things in the lid, it should stay hot until Fushimi came to get it. He didn't know what to get him, but he was sure that Fushimi had an abundance of whatever he liked in his coffee, so he just got it black.

 

He sat the cup down in front of the door and typed out a quick text to Fushimi:  _**Theres a coffee outside your door if ur home. Thought you could use it. Happy studying** _

 

The reply came in seconds: _**Just come inside, you Neanderthal.**_

 

He glared at the door. Fushimi really didn't deserve him being this nice to him. He guessed he didn't have anything better to do, though, so he picked the coffee back up and opened the door. His heart skipped a couple beats as he crossed the threshold, recalling his last visit.

 

Well the _sight_ of the apartment wasn't going to call up any memories of the kiss, that was for sure. He couldn't see shit. He blinked against the sudden darkness after the cool white light from the hallway's streamlined fixtures. At first the only illumination he noticed came from the expanse of glass that made up the far wall of the apartment. It felt so big and cold in the dark.  
  
His eyes adjusted and he realized the triple screens on the computer desk were on, and familiar, dexterous fingers skated across the keyboard backlit by blue LEDs. He could only make out the back of Fushimi's head by the frame of an expensive looking headset, the volume controls and brand logo glowing with the same cobalt colored LEDs as the keyboard.  
  
"I woulda left this outside," Yata said, lifting the paper cup.  
  
Fushimi turned in his desk chair and lowered the mic from his mouth. Behind him, a demon was frozen with his sword in the air, halted mid attack from the look of it. He pulled one side of his headphones away from his ear. Instead of greeting Yata or acknowledging what he said, for some reason he decided to explain his presence at the computer. "Eventually I have to take a break from studying, anyway, when I know I can't retain anything else. Hence the game. It keeps me awake," Fushimi said. He leaned back in his chair with a creak of leather. "Bring it here."  
  
"Demanding," Yata muttered, but he crossed the living room to the fancy PC setup.  
  
It felt weird, handing Fushimi his coffee like it wasn't just the second time it had been in his apartment, like it had been more than a couple days since he stopped straddling the fence between wanting to punch Fushimi and wanting Fushimi and finally acted on one of those desires. He was glad he didn't choose punching him, Yata thought, watching Fushimi's eyelashes cast down behind his glasses as he took a sip of coffee.  
  
"How are things with the other gang?" Fushimi asked.  
  
Yata leaned on his desk, careful not to touch any of the computer equipment or carefully stacked papers. "They're hiding like rats in the sewer right now. They come out long enough to start shit and then disappear again." He scrubbed his hands over his face. "We tailed one of theirs on a bike the other night, black with green smoke along the sides from what Izumo told me. It probably would have led us back to their hideout but we were in their territory and Izumo lost them."  
  


“It sounds like a fairly distinctive bike and I imagine HOMRA has plenty of contacts. Just search databases and traffic cameras and track it down.” Fushimi cracked his neck, briefly turning his head toward the computer monitors and revealing the dark circles under his eyes.

 

“I wish it was that easy but JUNGLE were hackers before they started this with us, if they don't want anything traced back to their people then there's not going to be a record of it. Vehicles, apartments, they're all phantoms. We found one of their top guy's apartment but that was by a stroke of luck and an information broker. Hanging around there got Dewa hit by a car, too.” He looked more closely at Fushimi, noting that his hair was in more disorder than usual and his fingers didn't seem completely steady where they held his coffee. “Hey, are you okay?”

 

“I'm fine. Just been busy studying,” Fushimi said in a carefree tone that Yata didn't believe for a second.

 

“When's the last time you slept?”

 

Fushimi rolled his eyes, starting to look irritated by the line of questioning. “I don't know, a couple days or so.”

 

“A couple days or _so_? For fuck's sake, Saruhiko, are you trying to kill yourself?”

 

“You're incredibly loud,” Fushimi said, rubbing his temples.

 

“Studying isn't going to mean shit if you end up in the hospital before you graduate!”

 

“And annoying.”

 

Yata ignored him. “If you don't remember the last time you slept then I don't even want to think about your eating habits. Stay right here, I'm going to make you something to eat.”

 

“Just go-”

 

“I'm not going anywhere!” He took a deep breath, lowered his voice. “I'll go home, okay? But not until you eat a hot meal and lay down. You of all people know what you're doing to your body.”

 

Remarkably, Fushimi didn't seem to have a comeback for that one. He spun his desk chair back toward the computer and pulled his headset back into place. Figuring that was the closest thing to permission he was going to get, Yata went into the kitchen and turned on the light above the stove. It wasn't as bright as the overheads, not as harsh to adjust to in the dark apartment. He started opening cabinets in search of some actual food. He found stacks of ceramic dishes that might not have been touched since Fushimi moved in, a cabinet full of glasses and mugs that looked like it got a bit more use, and finally a door that wasn't much smaller than the front door, that led to the walk-in pantry.

 

“Just how loaded are you?” he murmured to himself, feeling for the light switch.

 

As soon as he saw the shelves, it was everything he could do not to go back out into the living room and start yelling again. All the damn money Fushimi seemed to have, and the massive pantry was stocked with nothing but granola bars, instant ramen, and fucking _coffee._ He walked out of the pantry and decided to try the fridge. Maybe there was at least some leftovers he could put in the microwave.

 

The rest of the kitchen was pristine and orderly without a personal touch in sight, save for some drinkware in the sink. There were no splashes of color, no cute, decorative items or anything else that made it look like a home. The double-door fridge was no exception; it was clean and smudge-free (an impressive feat with a stainless steel finish) save for a single sheet of paper held in place by a magnet. He squinted in the low light provided by the stove a few feet away. It was definitely a child's drawing, a dark haired man with glasses rendered in strokes of crayon. Yata could only guess the colorful shirt and pants were meant to be scrubs.

 

His eyes traveled further down and his heart climbed into his throat. In the bottom left corner, in familiar black writing, it said “Doctor Fusheemi.”

 

“Minoru,” he whispered.

  
He shook off the weird tingle in his chest and set to collecting the best ingredients he could scrape up. It ended up being a couple packs of ramen, some teriyaki chicken that didn't seem to have been in the fridge very long, and a few bottles of seasonings that still had the plastic seal around the lid. He pulled a pan down from the hooks above the stove and whistled. It was a nice straight sided skillet with a heavy bottom. Hell, no more than Fushimi apparently cooked, he might just take it home with him.

 

By the time he was done, it was a decent looking dish. He served it up on two plates and returned to the living room. Fushimi was engrossed in his fight with the hammer-wielding demon, firing spells with rapid keystrokes and occasional taps to the mouse. His headset seemed to do its job of canceling outside noise well, since he didn't move a muscle from his game no matter how many times Yata called his name. Yata finally went over and popped one ear of the headset against the side of Fushimi's head.

 

“Get off there and eat, jackass.”

 

Fushimi huffed but he paused his game nonetheless. He couldn't be bothered to get up, wheeling his computer chair to the coffee table with his feet until he could reach the plate sitting there. At least he left the damn headset on the desk.

 

“This doesn't look as horrible as I expected,” Fushimi said, looking at the home cooked meal like he had never seen one in person.

 

Yata didn't point out that they were eating by the overflow of already low light from the kitchen and the food didn't look like much more than a pile of mysterious, darkly colored chunks and squiggly shadows of noodles. He sat cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table and picked up his own plate. “I'm not a bad cook, thank you very much. I help cook at the bar sometimes, too.”

 

Fushimi looked up from stabbing a piece of chicken to raise an eyebrow. “Well, thank goodness you've earned the favor of some gangsters and a bunch of piss-drunk patrons that are probably too far blitzed to know a chicken wing from a strip steak by the time you throw something on their plate.”

 

“God, you're _horrible._ ”

 

“Go home then.”

 

“Not 'til I make sure you eat,” Yata said around a mouthful of noodles.

 

He couldn't see much of Fushimi's face but he was pretty sure he rolled his eyes. “Heathen.”

 

As much of a pain in the ass as he was, his second time having dinner with Fushimi wasn't bad. Once he started eating he didn't stop until he had slowly but steadily cleaned the plate. He was obviously starving, but Yata guessed his pride wouldn't let him scarf it down like his stomach wanted him to. He finished the last of his own food with a sigh. Damn, he must be a sucker. All Fushimi had done was needle and insult him from day one and now he was making the bastard dinner. He sat his empty plate on the weirdly modern looking glass coffee table (after he found a gap between the numerous textbooks laying open on it) with Fushimi's and maneuvered his way to his feet. _Okay, so no more sitting on floors,_ he decided as his leg protested the strain of pushing his weight off the ground.

 

“Can I use your bathroom?” he asked.

 

Fushimi waved a hand. “Knock yourself out.”

 

It sounded like a genuine suggestion. Yata shot him a glare before he made his way down the dark hallway. The first door he came to was the bathroom, though it took some fumbling for the lightswitch before he could see anything. His mouth fell open as a row of vanity lights and a larger overhead came on at the same time. Three people could get ready in front of the mirror with ease, and he could have fit a small child in the damn sink, nevermind the walk-in shower that was _separate_ from the massive tub. The shower got a lot more use than the tub, going by the lack of shampoo or soap in the latter.

 

 _Everything in here is so white,_ he thought, opening drawers under the sink.

 

After one empty drawer and another that held only the essentials for shaving, he found the one he was looking for. He took the few utensils it held and returned to the living room. The other door off the hallway made him curious but he had no business snooping around Fushimi's bedroom. He stomped down his curiosity and focused on his original task for going to the bathroom in the first place.

 

“Hey, wait a minute,” he said when he found Fushimi back at the desk, about to pull his headphones back on. The plates were gone from the coffee table at least.

 

“Tch. What?”

 

_I guess you actually eating dinner is the closest thing I'm gonna get to some gratitude, huh?_ “Just leave the game for a minute. Tilt your head back.”

 

Fushimi stared at him over his shoulder for a minute before reluctantly leaning back. He flinched in surprise when Yata gathered his hair and pulled it over the headrest, the black strands blending in against the leather. “I'm not gonna hurt you or anything, geez,” Yata said, laying the brush on the desk and starting with the comb. “Your hair is just a mess. Even more than usual.”

 

“My hair isn't usually a mess.”

 

Yata chuckled at the defensive tone, working the teeth of the comb through a tangle. “It depends on how long it's been since you put it up. It starts falling out of your ponytail after awhile.”

 

Fushimi fell silent at that. Yata didn't know why, but he didn't question it. He didn't need Fushimi turning to give him any smart remarks and making Yata pull his hair. He worked his way from the ends up to the crown of Fushimi's head. His hair was clean, just disheveled like he had washed it and then forgotten about it. Humming to himself, he ran his fingers through it a few more times than he absolutely had to; he had wondered more than once how it would feel, and it was as silky to the touch as it looked.

 

He sat the comb down and picked up the brush. It had been a long time since he had done this. Years, it must have been, when Megumi would forget to brush her curls before bed and come wake him up because they were a tangled mess and she had moved herself to tears trying to get a brush through them.

 

“What is that song?” Fushimi asked, for once not sounding irritated by the noise so much as genuinely curious.

 

Yata had to hum a few more notes to himself, having not been any attention to what it was until he asked. He flushed to his ears as soon as he realized. “Just an old song we play at the bar sometimes.”

 

Fushimi went quiet as Yata reached around to brush his bangs into place. He didn't say anything else, even when the brush was no longer hitting any snags and Yata was just pulling it through his hair to let the soft locks fall over his fingers. He finally sat the brush down and stepped back.

 

“Alright, I'll go home now. You really ought to take better care of yourself, you know.” He waited for the click of Fushimi's tongue or a dismissal, but Fushimi stayed silent. He moved to the side of the chair to look at him. “Hey. Saruhiko.”

 

Fushimi's chest rose and fell evenly under his white t-shirt, and Yata saw that his eyes were closed under his bangs. He sighed. Of all the places to fall asleep.

 

“I guess I'll just let you sleep here,” he muttered, figuring Fushimi would wake up if Yata moved him and decide his brain was refueled enough to keep studying. He left a quick kiss on Fushimi's bangs before he stepped away from the desk. “Sleep tight, asshole.”

 

He had let himself out of the apartment and got on his bike before he realized he was smiling for some reason, and that he had given voice to his absent humming at some point on his way down from the fourth floor. Oh well. There was no one around to hear him.

 

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” he sang, starting up the bike. The engine drowned out his voice but he kept singing anyway. “You make me happy, when skies are gray.”

 

 

 


	10. Guarded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Rating change (see updated story tags for specifics), violence, all the dialogue. 
> 
> Kind of a short chapter but I felt like it was the right place to leave it so I hope no one minds!   
> Now that I've said that, I HAVE SUCH EXCITING NEWS. My amazing reader Lovely_Reira commissioned an artist to do Fushimi as a med student and it is everything. The artist, the incredibly talented @gumochi can be found on Instagram, and with their permission I uploaded the art to my own Instagram, so please go check it out! Same as here, my Insta is @xotsundoku. Thank you a million times over to both reader and artist, I love it so much <3 <3 <3

At some point in the recent years, green had overtaken the colorless grunge of the brick walls, moving from alley to alley like cancer. It was just as aggressive, just as hard to eradicate once it began to spread. The green began to crawl down from the walls, into phones, lighting up screens with the interface for the JUNGLE app. Once it entered the bloodstream of the Internet, there was no stopping it. The green reached the heart of the city in no time.

 

College Point was the pulsing center of JUNGLE, and it was being painted red.

 

Tatara shook the can and sprayed another layer where the original graffiti still showed through the HOMRA flames now adorning the wall. The black duffel bag at his feet had carried dozens of cans when they arrived. Most of them were empty at this point, their contents covering the marks JUNGLE had left before them, a war cry of paint and aerosol.

 

Anna's hand stopped halfway through reaching out to take Yata's empty can and put it in the bag. “They're coming.”

 

“I can't believe it took them this long,” Yata said.

 

Tatara dropped his can on the ground. “They must have not had Wi-Fi.”

 

A few seconds after it reached Anna's keen ears, Yata heard the heavy footsteps rounding the corner into the alley. They weren't quite running but they were definitely in a hurry. It was just dark enough for the streetlamps to have come on and let Yata count a half dozen men as they flooded into the narrow space.

 

“I don't think we should fight them,” Tatara said.

 

Anna placed a small hand on Yata's elbow. “They have the advantage here, we wouldn't get these guys down before more showed up.”

 

“Don't worry.” He gave her a reassuring grin. “We just came to make 'em mad. Go get the car, I'll keep them busy.”

 

“Don't get carried away!” Tatara called over his shoulder as he ran with Anna for the other end of the alley.

 

He drew his gun as they retreated, and he cocked it as soon as he could no longer hear them. He turned to the men that had finally reached him and fanned out to block his path. A couple of them had bats or knives, but he would wager that the visibly unarmed ones were carrying guns.

 

“HOMRA must have a death wish,” said a tall man with a distinct absence of hair.

 

The one next to him laughed, and Yata recognized him as the asshole with the brass knuckles that was waiting outside the elevator after all hell broke loose at the cage fight. “Mikoto must be losing his touch to trust his defense to a kid like this.”

 

Yata's smile widened. “How about you try me then.”

 

As soon as he heard the scuff a shoe moving forward on the pavement, he fired. One, two. Inhale. One, two as he exhaled. Inhale. The last two as he exhaled. In seconds, the men were staggering back after having a shot neatly fired between each of their feet.

 

“That's your only warning,” Yata said as the last shell casing hit the ground. “Take another step and I'll add your blood to the nice red on this wall.”

 

The bald one spit on the ground. “You're all fucking crazy.”

 

A horn blared at the other end of the alley and Yata backed up with his gun still trained on the men spread out in front of him. They had clustered closer together after the warning shots, but he didn't take his eyes off of them until he was close enough to hear the engine running behind him.

 

“If you think I'm crazy, be glad the boss wasn't here.” He opened the door to the Lexus and raised his gun, letting the streetlamp illuminate the HOMRA insignia on the grip. “Tell Nagare we said hi.”

 

He was still closing the door when he heard gunshots over the squall of Tatara spinning tires. None of them seemed to connect. He grinned and settled back against the passenger's seat. In the rearview mirror he saw Anna with her hands folded in her lap, looking as peaceful as ever in the middle of the chaos.

 

“I can't believe Izumo let you drive his car,” he said as Tatara whipped around someone that slowed down to take a turn.

 

“'Let me' might be the wrong way to put it.” He grinned sheepishly. “He got tired of me hotwiring it and finally gave me a key.”

 

Anna leaned forward between the seats. “Why don't you just buy a car?”

 

“I don't drive enough to need my own. I could spend that money on much more beneficial things.”

 

Yata looked at him. “Like more ugly scarves?”

 

“Shut your mouth, Hobbit! They're couture.”

 

“Who are you calling a Hobbit, you sugar plum fairy!”

 

“Joke's on you, I'm happy to be a fairy,” Tatara said, and stuck his tongue out.

 

Anna sat back in her seat, hiding laughter behind her fingers. Yata ran a hand over his forearm. He could feel the slightest throb from the recoil of six consecutive shots. It felt something like an accomplishment. Since Iwafune shot him, the sight of a gun besides his own or knowing he was at the risk of getting one pulled on him had broken him out in a cold sweat. He couldn't afford to freeze when the fighting started. Part of him had wavered when he pulled his gun in the alleyway, wondering if that residual fear would affect the skills he learned from Izumo. Every bullet hit its mark, though, and with each round he fired he could feel a little more of that doubt bleeding out of him.

 

 

 

He thought the longer he stared at the front of the building, the less it would seem like a bad idea.

 

_It's just a drink after work. Nothing of consequence._

 

It still seemed like a bad idea.

 

He avoided those quite religiously, so he would be damned if he knew why he still pushed the door open and entered the HOMRA bar for the second time. The dry evening left him no such excuse as he had before. There was nothing to hinder him from riding back home like he should have but he supposed he was there now. Might as well have a drink.

 

The fair haired man with tinted glasses wasn't behind the bar. As a matter of fact, if someone was to illustrate the phrase “bad idea,” Reisi was sure that their muse would be the man standing before him.

 

“Hello, Suoh,” he said, crossing the room to sit on a stool. His voice carried with ease, as they were only a couple of other patrons in the bar.

 

HOMRA's leader hadn't bothered to dress for the duty of barkeep. He wore the same white t-shirt and jeans that he always seemed to wear. The warm lighting of the space leant itself well to the man's amber eyes, and Reisi almost regretted calling attention to himself as they shifted to him, taking him in with an intensity that was ill at odds with his outward demeanor.

 

“Let me guess, you want something top shelf,” Mikoto said, lips curling around the unlit cigarette he held between them.

 

Reisi propped his chin in his hand. “Give me the bartender's recommendation.”

 

“Well, the bartender is off for the night, so you're getting mine. I hope you're not expecting gingerale.”

 

“I've been at the hospital for fourteen hours, I think I've earned a drink of the adult variety.”

 

Mikoto turned to the shelves and Reisi hoped his exhaustion wasn't getting the better of his judgment. To be fair, he hadn't shown up expecting to be served by HOMRA's notoriously violent leader. He had expected HOMRA's equally notorious, somewhat less violent second-in-command, which wasn't much better in hindsight.

 

“Johnny Walker Black,” Mikoto said, pouring into two shot glasses. “Fourteen hours, I'd say you've earned a double.” He pushed one of them across and raised the other.

 

Reisi raised his in return, and they slammed their empty glasses down nearly at the same time. He cleared his throat of the tickle trying to work its way back up. It had been awhile since he took a shot of liquor rather than nursing a few sips throughout the night.

 

Mikoto began pouring again without asking. “Burns, doesn't it?”

 

“Must be why you like it so much.” He managed to keep the smirk off his face until he heard Mikoto's involuntary huff of laughter, and then he couldn't quite keep his poker face up. He drowned his smile with the next shot of Johnny Walker. There was a pleasant lightness in his head when he sat the glass back down.

 

“I'll give you credit, Dr. Munakata, you can handle your alcohol,” Mikoto said around his still unlit cigarette, patting his pockets down with increasing frustration.

 

Perhaps it was the pleasant haze from the drink that let him enjoy watching Mikoto struggle a bit longer before he took the lighter from his own pocket and held it out. Mikoto looked surprised by the small flame dancing between them, following it to its owner and back to Reisi's face as if to make sure he was right about who was sitting there. Reisi met his stare evenly and tilted the lighter a bit further forward; an invitation.

 

Mikoto held his gaze as he leaned forward into the flame, the crackle of burning paper seeming much louder than it should as it curled away from the end of his cigarette. Reisi took his thumb off the lighter and returned it to his pocket. Mikoto was still leaned forward on his elbows, drawing lazily on his cigarette.

 

“Got any more secrets?” Mikoto asked, a cloud of smoke pouring out with his words.

 

Reisi ran his finger along the edge of the shot glass. He dared to meet those gold eyes full of threats and promises. “Far more than we have time for this evening.”

 

 

 

As much as he enjoyed wiping the smug looks off the faces of those JUNGLE bastards, Yata was glad to step into his apartment. He locked the door and leaned back against it. With everything that had gone on since he was shot, it was easy to forget how short a time it had been until his leg politely reminded him. He looked over at the kitchen, at the couple of bowls in the sink from eating cereal in the mornings, the couple of spots that needed wiped off the counter. He walked right past it to the narrow stairs on the other side. Fuck it. He could clean up later. He wanted a shower, but he could take that later, too. Right now nothing looked more inviting than his bed.

 

He threw his t-shirt off the side of the stairs and took his shoes off at the edge of the bed. His pants were spared the same treatment when the sight of his pillows became to inviting to resist. He dropped down on the bed hard enough for it to whine in protest, but the damn thing had survived this long so he wasn't concerned. The only spring coming through was at the end and easy to avoid with his feet. With a few undignified movements, he toed his socks off and pushed them off the side of the bed. Much better.

 

He dropped his head on the pillows and closed his eyes. It wasn't even that late, but the fatigue of the past couple weeks was catching up to him. His body was a big, aching ball of stress. He reached down the front of his shorts to trace the healing bullet hole. It still felt weird for the stitches not to be there, for the skin to be held together on its own. He traced the uneven edges, careful to avoid the scabbing wound itself. He hated to admit it but he probably would have accidentally opened it up trying to take the stitches out himself if Fushimi hadn't done it for him. If he concentrated, let his own fingers go still, he could feel Fushimi's touch ghost across his skin.

 

It wasn't Fushimi taking his stitches out that he remembered most vividly, though. It was after that. The first touch of their lips had been almost unconscious, as though something outside either of their control had pulled them together. Then he gasped for breath and Fushimi's tongue was in his mouth, and they were both firmly planted in reality. In the present, he shivered, wishing he had worn a shirt to bed but knowing his lack of clothing wasn't the cause. _I kissed him back a little too hard,_ he recalled, thinking back to the slide of his teeth on Fushimi's lip. He swallowed at the accompanying memory. _He liked it._

 

The sound Fushimi made had been higher pitched than he expected, and about a hundred times sexier. It was well worth the taste of blood in his mouth. Yata dug his fingers a little harder into his thigh. The ceiling fan was no longer helping the flush of heat from creeping down his body. His bare knees pressed together but it was no comparison for how they felt against Fushimi's hips when he was straddling him, and he could only imagine how it would feel without the barrier of clothing, how it would feel to sit astride his lap with Fushimi inside him.

 

“Shit,” he said under his breath, hand moving from his thigh to press down on his stiffening cock, as if that would keep things from getting any worse.

 

It was the opposite. No matter how little pleasure he intended with it, the contact of his hand on himself just made him harder. His sheets felt way too hot under his body. He imagined for a moment that their positions were reversed, that if he opened his eyes Fushimi would be sitting on top of him, that smug look wiped off his face as he fucked himself on Yata's cock.

 

He shuddered, fingers wrapping around himself. There wouldn't be anything gentle about it, knowing Fushimi, but he would probably make the sweetest sounds. His cock throbbed in his hand, thinking of Fushimi's gasp that was almost a moan when Yata bit his lip and how much louder, more frequent those noises would be with Yata inside him. He gripped the pillowcase above his head as he stroked himself. For all the times he had gotten off to a blurry fantasy or images online, he didn't think he had ever been this turned on.

 

It felt wrong, in a way, getting himself off to something he told Fushimi he didn't want yet, but the privacy of his own mind was a lot less intimidating than the act itself. He wondered if their first kiss would have become their first time if he hadn't stopped. Fushimi was an ass sometimes but surely he knew enough of the human body to understand the importance of preparing him. A new, unexpected wave of heat washed over him at the thought of Fushimi fingering him open. Fluid welled under his thumb where he circled the head of his cock. He could almost feel soft lips against his ear as Fushimi taunted him. _Does it feel good, Misaki?_

 

“ _Fuck,_ ” he breathed, precome leaking steadily over his fingers at the thought of Fushimi's voice whispering to him. 

 

His hips arched up, imagining Fushimi's long fingers working over his prostate with ease. _You like that, don't you?_ His knuckles hurt from how tightly he grasped the pillowcase. He wasn't just hard, he was _wet,_ his cock and his hand slick as he started to stroke himself faster.

 

A shrill sound next to him almost gave him a heart attack. His eyes flew open to see his phone lit up on the nightstand. He swore if it was Izumo he was finally going to break his self-imposed laws of respect and go off on him. However, his anger was doused as soon as he looked at the caller ID. Oh, come on. No. Not now. He trembled all over at the sight of Fushimi's name on the screen. More than anything, he wanted to mute the call and pretend he'd been in the shower or something. Easy enough. The interruption had done nothing to calm his arousal; it still flooded him, impatient and desperate for release. He also felt bad ignoring Fushimi when he had taken the time to call around his busy schedule.

 

A quick conversation, and he would be done.

 

He swiped the green button and put it on speaker on the nightstand. His breathing was still too fast for him to want the phone right up against his face. “Hey,” he said, sounding a whole lot more unfazed than he felt.

 

“Misaki.”

 

He barely kept from cursing out loud, hand tightening around his cock. Fuck, this was a bad idea. Hearing Fushimi with his fantasies still fresh in his mind was torture and ecstasy at the same time. “How was the hospital?” he forced himself to ask.

 

“It was boring, I didn't think my call was ever going to end.”

 

His hand had started moving again without his brain's permission, but he didn't really fight it, too caught up in actually hearing Fushimi as he worked back up to his previous pace. _This is so fucked up,_ he thought, but he managed to say, “Maybe you can go work in another part of the hospital soon.”

 

Fushimi clicked his tongue and Yata squeezed around the head of his cock, shaking even at that barely audible noise. “Maybe. You sound tired, I can just let you go to sleep," Fushimi said.

 

“No, keep talking.”

 

If Fushimi heard the plea in his voice, he didn't comment on it. “Do you have any formalware?”

 

He didn't care about the sudden change of subject at that point, though he did have to scramble to give a coherent answer. “I might have my suit from prom but it p-probably doesn't fit anymore.”

 

"I'll get you something. If you don't have plans then I'm picking you up for dinner tomorrow."

 

Fushimi, Fushimi's car, Fushimi _dressed up,_ fucking Christ. "Sounds good," he said, hoping Fushimi couldn't hear the increasingly wet sound of his hand's movements.

 

"I figure it's my turn to be the one to take you out. We're going somewhere nice, or at least that's what I hear from Reisi. He went there with a couple other surgeons once."

 

Yata threw his head back against the pillow, a tightness rapidly building at his center. "Yeah. Tell me about the place."

 

"It's on the 35th floor of Mandarin Oriental Hotel in Manhattan. Not very far from my apartment,” he said, seemingly oblivious to Yata hanging on his every word. "I don't know much else."

 

"Hotel?" Yata echoed, thighs shaking and feet sliding restlessly across the bed.

 

Fushimi hummed. "You sound excited. Did Misaki change his mind about waiting?"

 

His voice had dropped to a low, seductive note and Yata bit down on his lip, knowing he was beyond words and hoping for once that Fushimi didn't stop his teasing. He couldn't bear to slow down, not when the pleasure was arching his back off the bed, disrupting the pool of precome that had gathered on his abs and making it drip down onto his wrist. As though he had prayed to an angel and not a gorgeous demon of a med student, Fushimi kept talking as though he heard Yata's silent wish.

 

"I could book a room for after dinner. It's an appealing thought, showing you off and then ripping away all those nice clothes I'm going to buy you."

 

Yata's toes curled against the sheets and Fushimi made a sound that was somehow both thoughtful and suggestive; almost a purr.

 

"You got so hard when I kissed you, it makes me wonder how fast I could make you come."

 

He let go of the pillowcase to slap his hand over his mouth and stifle his cry as went over the edge. His release spilled hot and fast, covering his fist and running over his fingers. It was everything he could do to stay silent with his body spasming with absolute, blinding pleasure. He was distantly aware of a few drops hitting his chest as a second wave of orgasm crashed over him. Somehow the shame of falling apart at Fushimi's words was just making him come harder. _Fuck, it won't stop,_ he thought with his legs twitching against the bed.

 

He was shaking when it finally subsided. He took a deep breath before he tried to speak. Better to say something and sound a little off than Fushimi question his silence. He didn't think his endorphin riddled brain could come up with a believable lie.

 

"Dinner, yes, maybe later on the room." Guilt knotted his stomach again. It had never been more apparent to him how much he wanted Fushimi but his nerves might have been the only thing that outweighed his attraction.

 

Fushimi carried on like he hadn't expected a different answer. His indifference was a relief for a change. "Do you think you can manage wearing a shirt with buttons and spending more than an hour in a city where you can't throw a rock and hit any HOMRA graffiti?"

  
  


"I think I can manage, smartass."

  
  


"Tomorrow, then. Be ready at five."

  
  


Yata tried to catch his breath as dialtone rung out. He blinked up at the popcorn ceiling. His sense was returning to him little by little, and it began raising questions that were even more upsetting than the mess he'd made of himself.

  
  


What had he just agreed to?

  
  


“Crap,” he said to the ceiling.

  
  


The fan blades continued their lazy rotation with no sympathy for his dilemma.

  
  


  
  


The next day, Fushimi knocked on his door at four fifty-eight. He cursed under his breath and gave up on trying to get his hair in order. He had expected Fushimi to just be waiting in his car when he got down there at five, but even before he got to the door, he had no doubt of who waited for him on the other side. His cheeks flamed thinking of the day before. Excitement and embarrassment surged up in equal parts as he opened the door.

 

“This is the most formal thing I had,” he blurted out.

 

The dressiest articles of clothing he owned happened to be a pair of jeans and a polo shirt by a designer brand that Tatara bought him. It had seemed sufficient when he put it on. Now, looking at Fushimi, his confidence in his outfit and his ability to form sentences withered and died together.

 

“I told you I was going to get you something to wear,” Fushimi said, and somehow Yata's brain had failed to compute the garment bag in his hand until he held it up.

 

In Yata's defense, Fushimi was dressed in black slacks and a matching blazer open across a white button down and skinny black tie, and it all fit like it was painted on him. Somewhere in the back of his head he could appreciate the irony of having their roles reversed; the only other time Fushimi had come to his apartment, he had been the one staring shamelessly. The trip with Minoru to the hospital that followed seemed like much longer ago than it was. Yata at least had the presence of mind to invite him in this time.

 

“You didn't have to do that,” he said, taking the garment bag.

 

Fushimi followed him into the apartment and Yata didn't have to look behind him, he could _feel_ the judgmental stare landing on him. “It's a good thing I did.”

 

“I never have a reason to dress up,” he said defensively. He stopped at the bathroom doorway that still lacked a door from Fushimi's last visit. “I'm gonna change, just make yourself at home. There's coffee in the kitchen if you want some.”

 

Even though Fushimi had seen him both shirtless and in his underwear on separate occasions, he felt exposed as he stripped in the bathroom without a door to close. He relaxed a little once he heard footsteps retreat toward the front of the apartment. Clad only in his boxers, he hooked the garment bag on the towel bar and pulled the zipper down. There was a designer logo on the bag that Tatara would probably recognize. He hadn't even seen the clothes yet and he could tell they were expensive, a foreign splash of luxury against a white body towel that was yellowed around the edges from age.

 

It turned out to be a pair of charcoal slacks and a silk shirt that was a deep, rich burgundy. He ran a hand down the sleeve. He had never touched genuine silk (and he had no doubt this stuff was real) and it was even softer than he imagined. He was sure some of Tatara or maybe even Izumo's clothes were silk but he didn't have a habit of touching their clothes. It left a pleasant tingle on his skin when he slid his arms into it, and settled just right around his shoulders after it was buttoned. Maybe the boss was on to something with being such a snob. The slacks fit just as well, if not a little tighter than he usually preferred his pants. A quick check in the mirror told him that his gun wasn't visible as long as he left the shirt untucked.

 

He realized when he walked back out into the living room that Fushimi didn't understand the whole “make yourself at home” thing. He stood in the middle of the room with his arms crossed, staring rather blankly out the window. Sure, he did _look_ out of place with his expensive suit against the backdrop of a ratty couch and particle board end table that was starting to bow in the middle, but he didn't look like new places were his thing at all. Yata sighed. Honestly, if it wasn't for the fact he was already in his third year of medical school, he would wonder if Fushimi had interacted with people at all before interning at the hospital.

 

“I'm ready,” he said, shifting awkwardly when Fushimi looked at him. “Thanks for...these.”

 

Fushimi made a low sound of approval. “My pleasure.”

 

His tone made the meaning of his words clear and Yata made a beeline past him for the door, not daring to meet his heavy lidded gaze when he asked, “By the way, how did you know my measurements?”

 

Fushimi's arm snagged his waist before he could get past him and he might have stopped breathing when he felt Fushimi's lips against his ear. “I spend enough time looking at your body and thinking about what I want to do it, I thought I could make a decent guess.”

 

“Oh,” he said, throat going dry.

 

He didn't bother resisting when that arm pulled him back against Fushimi's chest, his head tilting back onto the taller man's shoulder. Fushimi's breath tickled his ear again and he was sure Fushimi could feel him shudder. He was hyperaware of how very much alone they were in his apartment.

 

“The reservations are for seven” Fushimi said, “but we could stay here if you want.”

 

Somehow Yata didn't think staying there would consist of making popcorn and watching B movies.

 

It took more willpower than he cared to admit to step away from Fushimi and say, “Let's go, we don't wanna be late. I can't let these fancy clothes go to waste.”

 

“Wouldn't be a waste if they were on the floor,” Fushimi muttered, but he gave no further protest to following Yata out of the apartment.

 

He took a folded hunk of leather out of his pocket on the way downstairs that, once he shook it out, Yata could see was a pair of black driving gloves. He watched appreciatively as Fushimi slid his long fingers into them. He never would have pegged Fushimi as someone who cared much about his appearance, but damn he cleaned up nice. As soon as they pushed through the front doors of the building, he saw the Audi waiting at the curb. It was unfair that the car was just as sexy as its owner.

 

A medical podcast was playing when Fushimi started the car. Ignoring Yata's insistence that he didn't mind, Fushimi tapped the screen and turned it off. Yata rolled his eyes; he wouldn't have minded some white noise. He had come to enjoy Fushimi's company more since their last car ride together but he always found silence to be tense. People got mad at him all the time for not allowing what they called comfortable silences but that was what he did _,_ damn it, he made noise if no one else was going to. He knew Fushimi would be one of the many to find that habit irritating.

 

He decided on a question he was genuinely curious about. “No studying tonight?”

 

“I took the exam I was studying for this morning.” They had already hit evening traffic and Fushimi drummed his fingers on his leg, a tic Yata first noticed when they took Minoru to the hospital.

 

His observation came to a screeching halt when Fushimi's words registered with him, though. “You did _what_? Why didn't you tell me?”

 

“Because it didn't have anything to do with you.”

 

“Of course it did, you've been studying your ass off! I woulda wished you luck, at least. Keep me in the loop about shit like that.”

 

“Okay.” Under his flat tone, Fushimi sounded almost confused.

 

Yata sighed and dragged his voice back down to a respectable level. “I'm sure you passed.”

 

“Yes.”

 

The dreaded silence came after that. They spent a lot of time in traffic given the time of day, and while Fushimi's gloves made no sound on his slacks, the drumming of his fingers in the corner of Yata's eye was getting to him. It was freaking weird. Fushimi wasn't hyper or overactive (surprising, with him being such a damn caffeine junkie) but that was what it seemed like when he was driving. Yata heaved out a sigh when he started seeing signs for the Ed Koch bridge. If the hotel was in Manhattan then they were about halfway there.

 

He finally snapped and grabbed Fushimi's hand. They were on the bridge and finally moving steadily enough that he probably wouldn't need to shift for awhile. He felt more than saw Fushimi jerk in surprise at the contact. _Really, all that time you spend in my personal space and you jump when I touch you? Weirdo._ He just knew Fushimi was looking at him but he kept staring ahead. He had grabbed Fushimi completely on impulse and now he could feel the heat creeping up his neck into his face.

 

_Just go with it,_ he told himself, and laced their fingers together on Fushimi's leg. It was a one-sided effort, as Fushimi was letting his fingers be manipulated but he wasn't helping in the least. He dared a quick look at the driver's side. Fushimi was glancing between the road and their hands like Yata had just dropped an alien species in his lap. He didn't look like he minded, but it was the most confused Yata had ever seen his genius of a boyfriend. Heh. His embarrassment abated enough for him to grin. Boyfriend.

 

He broke the silence with another question. “Why do you tap your fingers like that when you drive?”

 

“My father taught me to drive and I tended to leave one hand on the gearshift. He told me that's bad for it because you can put pressure on it without meaning to. I stopped leaving my hand on it, but I guess I did it for so long that I still look for something to do with my hand when I'm not shifting.”

 

“Do this,” Yata blurted out.

 

Fushimi blinked. “What?”

 

“I mean, if I'm with you, or whatever. You can do this...if you want,” Yata said, lifting their joined hands by way of explanation, knowing his face was redder than the sunset over the river.

 

“Oh.”

 

A long silence followed that made Yata think he was going to die right then and there of mortification until Fushimi spoke again, softly, in such a way that he almost didn't hear over the engine.

 

“Okay.”

 

 

 

 


	11. Grandeur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that the rating for the story has been established as Explicit I'm not going to include chapter-specific warnings for sexual content unless they are potentially triggering, so I just wanted to let you guys know. 
> 
> My only warning for this chapter is that absolutely nothing happens to advance the plot. But, there's other Stuff.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

**One Year Earlier**

 

_Yata kicked a rock; watched despondently as it bounced off a parking meter and rolled off the edge of the sidewalk. His younger siblings would be at the movie by now. They were probably laughing with his mom and his Not Dad. They had invited him, of course. They had invited him with smiling faces and eyes begging him to refuse. He had no problem turning them down. They didn't want him to come because they thought he would make it awkward, and they were right. He was the only one who didn't stay downstairs on Friday nights to watch the baseball game with her new husband. He was the one who took his plate to his room while the rest of them sat at the table._

 

_He was the one who didn't belong anymore. His family was moving forward with their new dad, and he was the one left behind. They were all varying degrees of upset with him for not liking her husband._

 

_Rubbing the toe of his shoe on the sidewalk, he wondered why his mom had such crap taste in men. He didn't dislike her new husband out of some remaining attachment to his real father; that guy was a piece of work, too. There was the Dad Who Left and Not Dad. He didn't really like either one of them. At least the one who took off had a legitimate claim to being his dad, though, whether he abandoned it or not._

 

_A now familiar anger welled in his chest. The empty glass pop bottle in his hand shook. The bastard. He tried to get along with everyone at first but it didn't matter when Yata didn't like him because hey, best two out of three, right? He might have made an effort if it affected his shiny new marriage or his two adoring step kids, but none of the rest of the family cared either. He wanted to stay and rage and make his Not Dad regret ever joining his family but, as much as it turned his stomach inside out, everyone else was happy. So he stepped back. He let them be a happy family._

 

 _He hurled the bottle as far as he could. Just because what he was doing was right didn't mean it was fucking_ fair.

 

_There was a light smack of glass connecting with something softer than brick and his head shot up. He had been alone on the street corner for so long that he hadn't thought to check for passerby. Three men stood before him, now. One of them held the bottle. He had caught it, going who knows how fast. Yata couldn't help but feel awe._

 

“ _You got any idea who you just threw this at?” the red haired man asked._

 

_Yata had never seen him before. “Sorry, man. I wasn't paying attention.”_

 

“ _Likely story. You run with that wannabe gang from the highschool?” The man was approaching him at this point, his furious gold eyes rooting Yata's feet to the ground._

 

_One of his companions, with a much more natural shade of light brown hair, caught his arm. “He's just a kid.”_

 

“ _They're all just kids until you put colors on 'em.”_

 

_The third man, a blond in glasses, sighed. “Stop being paranoid. I think the kids from the school learned their lesson.”_

 

_Yata looked between them with panic overwhelming the anger he felt before. Holy shit. “Are you guys in some kind of gang?”_

 

_The redhead's hostility seemed to fade at the question and he looked amused even though he didn't smile. The brunette was outright giggling into his hand, and the blond had fixed him with such an inquisitive stare over the top of his glasses that Yata felt sure he was reading his life story through his eyes. He flinched when the gold-eyed man threw the bottle but it clattered harmlessly into the trashcan._

 

_The brunette looked him over with what seemed to be genuine concern. “What are you doing out here?”_

 

“ _You can't get out much if you live around here and don't know who we are,” the blond added._

 

“ _I don't have anywhere else to go,” he said, staring at his shoes. They didn't seem interested in beating him up, so he looked up and asked a question of his own. “Who are you guys, anyway?”_

 

 

**Present**

 

 

For the first time since he met HOMRA, Yata was plunged into a world of the unfamiliar. The lobby of the hotel was beautiful but it was nothing compared to what awaited them on the 35th floor. He didn't realize he had stopped in his tracks to stare until Fushimi urged him forward with a hand on his back. Taking in his surroundings still came second to walking, so he let his feet carry him on autopilot as he followed Fushimi to the hostess. He couldn't take his eyes off the back wall, with its floor-to-ceiling display of wine selections. He didn't even like wine and it made him want to try some.

 

“Reservation for Munakata,” Fushimi said.

 

Yata was jarred out of his culture shock for a minute. “Doc is coming, too?”

 

“No,” Fushimi said as the hostess led them to a table. “He called and made the reservations. He's been here before, so they just put it under his name.”

 

“Oh.” Yata was quietly relieved. He liked Doc well enough, but he hadn't been picturing this evening with a party of three.

 

The restaurant was made up of glass, fuchsia, and frosted metal, and it was no less elegant for the unique pallet. His breath caught in his throat as they were led to a table against a wall of windows. The pinks of sunset were softening to a violet dusk over the city. He could _see_ the city. He was distantly aware of Fushimi making drink orders for both of them because he was dumbstruck by the thousands of lights twinkling outside the window.

 

“This place is amazing,” he said.

 

Fushimi didn't seem to share his wonder, but he still pointed up and said, “Look at the ceiling.”

 

Yata did, and his mouth fell open. Metal branches spanned the ceiling, twisting and curving in such a way that he could believe they led back to a great tree, barren of leaves for the winter. He finally dropped his gaze back down to Fushimi, only to find himself held as captive by that view as the one outside the glass. His hair was so black it almost looked blue in the restaurant's lighting. His eyes, though. His eyes were unmistakably, devastatingly blue.

 

“Thank you for bringing me here,” he said, his misgivings about having to dress up long forgotten. It was beyond worth it.

 

“Tch. We haven't even eaten yet, don't get too excited.”

 

A waitress came over with two glasses and a bottle of wine nestled in a bucket of ice. She filled their glasses and, much to Yata's surprise, left them with the bottle. He didn't know anything about wine but he would bet anything in a place like this would be expensive. _I guess I shouldn't be surprised,_ he thought, adjusting the collar on what was probably an equally expensive shirt that Fushimi bought him. There didn't seem to be a limit to the depth of the student's pockets. It was weird. For all the money Fushimi must have spent, he didn't really feel like he was being bought. With all of Fushimi's teasing he expected the night to come with some kind of expectations but he was surprised by how at ease he felt.

 

He picked up his glass of white wine. “To passing your exam.”

 

“I didn't bring you here to celebrate that,” Fushimi said, holding his glass but stubbornly not raising it.

 

Yata reached across the table and tapped it with his own glass, what Fushimi wanted be damned. “To passing your exam, asshole. Just be proud of yourself.”

 

Fushimi looked at him like he had said something bizarre, but he relented and took a sip of his wine. He grimaced as soon as he swallowed. “Gross.”

 

Yata shared the sentiment but he couldn't help laughing. “Why did you order it then?”

 

“Reisi said if it was a date, I needed to order a nice bottle of wine. Nothing about this is nice,” he said, glaring at the vintage.

 

Yata took another drink of the slightly bitter stuff just to hide his grin. He didn't want Fushimi to think he was making fun of him but he did have to wonder how much worse he would be at human interaction without Doc's guidance. The jealousy he had once felt for their bond was reshaping into a sort of gratitude. At least there was one other person besides him who put up with enough of Fushimi's crap to try and look after him. For all his brains, he seemed to fail miserably at being a person. Eating, socializing, it was all lost on him. Yata took another sip. After choking down some of the shots he'd taken at HOMRA, the wine wasn't that bad.

 

“You already bought it now, better drink up,” he said.

 

Fushimi clicked his tongue but he took another begrudging drink. He still didn't look like he enjoyed it but he didn't make quite as sour of a face. Yata picked at the label on the bottle. Maybe it was because of how fast he was drinking his glass of wine but a giddy happiness had stirred in his chest at how much trouble Fushimi had gone to with this date. He was out of his comfort zone, drinking something he didn't even like because he wanted to give Yata a proper date. He finished his glass as realization dawned on him. That feeling, of knowing Fushimi was spending money but it not seeming like a bribe, he knew what it was.He felt _spoiled._ The grumpy ass probably didn't even know he was doing it.

 

“The traditional three course starts with caviar,” Fushimi said.

 

“Yuck.”

 

“I agree. How about Maine Lobster?”

 

“Sure?” He had no idea how that differed from regular old lobster and the menu didn't offer much of a description, but he was always down for a plate of good seafood. Just not sea _eggs_. Ew.

 

As soon as they placed their orders, Yata refilled his empty glass. It was pretty good once he adjusted to the taste. He looked out the window at the darkening sky and a city that just seemed to get more alive as night fell. It was weird, looking down at a place with no HOMRA, no Nagare. It almost felt disloyal to be distanced so far from the gang but he had to remind himself it was only for a night, it wasn't like he was leaving Flushing.

 

 _So this is your world, huh?_ he thought, cutting his eyes to Fushimi. No. That wasn't really true. This was his city but his world was made up of textbooks and caffeine and scrubs that were picked from being washed too often. Being somewhere like Asiate was probably just as out of the ordinary for him. He watched Fushimi arrange his driving gloves on the table so they were laying perfectly atop one another. His glass sat empty next to them. Yata filled it halfway with wine, hoping it relaxed Fushimi the same way it did for him.

 

“How has your rotation with pediatrics been?” he asked, determined not to let Fushimi retract into that damn shell of his.

 

“Loud and bright. The kids scream and I'm tired of wearing Scooby Doo.”

 

Yata laughed at the outright misery in his voice. “Better switch back to the Invader Zim ones you had when I brought Minoru in.”

 

“You remember what I was wearing?” Fushimi asked, his tone giving no indication as to whether or not he was going to tease Yata for his answer.

 

He remembered everything about that night. He remembered the moment he realized the hot guy in cartoon scrubs was the blurry figure from after he was shot. He remembered his scorn at being called Sunshine and the way Minoru had seen through his bullshit long before Yata did. Now, sitting across from him at dinner, the two of them _together,_ he said couldn't help but smile. “Yeah. I remember.”

 

“You notice the dumbest things.” Fushimi was the one to turn and take in the view that time, but the way he propped his chin in his hand and curled his fingers against his mouth made Yata think he was hiding more of a reaction than he let on.

 

Their food arrived soon after and his stomach rumbled in anticipation as the waitress raised the cover from their dish. “Maine Lobster with carrot aioli,” she presented. She placed a plate in front of each of them.

 

Once she checked that they didn't need anything else, she pushed her cart back toward a set of doors that must lead to the kitchen. “This looks awesome,” he said, moving some to his plate.

 

It was served with heart of palm and ginger, which Fushimi promptly took the entirety of and dumped on Yata's plate. “Looks a lot better now.”

 

“You're gonna waste away,” Yata said, but after one bite of the palm he was almost glad to have it all to himself.

 

They had cleared about half their plates when their hunger (or at least Yata's, he couldn't speak for Fushimi) subsided enough to make conversation again. To his surprise, it was Fushimi who spoke first. “How are your sewer rats?”

 

“Huh?” Then he remembered the comparison he made at Fushimi's apartment. “Oh,” he said, and swallowed a bite of lobster before continuing, “we finally drew some of them out yesterday. Low level guys. We're hoping they pass it along to the boss and Nagare finally comes to face us. JUNGLE is based out of the internet so picking off their members one by one won't matter, there'll just be more where that came from.”

 

Fushimi sipped his wine. “Like the Hydra beast of Greek mythology. If you cut off one head, two more will grow back in its place.”

 

“Fucking exactly.”

 

Before he knew it, he was full and their plates were being taken away. They both agreed to turn down the second course; he was surprised they finished the first one. Maybe it was the quality of the food but he was full without feeling uncomfortable or the meal sitting heavy on his stomach. One thing he knew for sure was that it was the best damn food he'd ever eaten. He said as much to Fushimi, who waved off his gratitude as he slid a card into the black leather folder with the check.

 

“I mean it, though. Tonight...meant a lot.” He blushed even as he said it, but he managed to say it, dammit!

 

“Tch. Don't get sentimental on me.”

 

The waitress returned Fushimi's card and he scribbled something on the slip of paper inside the folder, probably a handsome tip. Yata felt a pang of disappointment as he watched Fushimi put his gloves on. “I'm not ready for it to be over,” he said, ignoring Fushimi's wish to change the subject.

 

“We have a room.”

 

He almost choked as he tried to finish the last gulp of wine in his glass. With only minor sputtering, he swallowed it and asked, “A room? W-why didn't you say something sooner?”

 

“Reisi thought he would be cute and book it when he made the dinner reservations. You said yesterday you weren't interested so I wasn't going to mention it.”

 

Yata felt a little happy that despite the emotionless way he said those words, Fushimi hadn't said anything so as not to pressure him. He was also glad when Fushimi kept talking since he didn't know what to say.

 

“If you aren't ready to go home, we could spend some time in the room.” His eyes were a blank slate but just looking at him and thinking of being alone with him was making Yata's heart race. The table suddenly felt too narrow, not putting adequate space between them for Yata to get a clear head. He hadn't had nearly enough wine to blame the feeling on alcohol. “We don't have to do anything more than what we've been doing here,” Fushimi added.

 

“We could do something,” Yata blurted out.

 

Fushimi's bored expression slipped, a storm brewing in his oceanic eyes. The words had slipped out before Yata gave them any thought, but now that they were out there he could just feel the air thicken. The smallest details about Fushimi were making his throat dry now that he realized what he had suggested. The strip of pale skin between Fushimi's jacket and gloves, the almost blue-blackness of his hair. Yata _wanted._ The way Fushimi was looking at him sent a chill down his back.

 

“Not everything,” he said, and then even more quietly, “but maybe something.”

 

Fushimi didn't speak. He just stood, and started walking. Yata followed him.

 

Not a word as they left the restaurant. Silence down the hallway. Fushimi pressed a button on the wall, and a ding to their left startled Yata as the first sound in several minutes. He watched the polished doors slide open to reveal an empty cab. The mood made the elevator appear to be more than transportation to another floor, as though it was taking him somewhere from which he couldn't return. Fushimi waited for him. He guessed in a way, there was no returning from where he was going. Even if it wasn't the whole thing, he was trusting Fushimi with something that scared the crap out of him. Not that long ago he wasn't even sure if he liked the guy.

 

He still wasn't sure about a lot between them, but he was sure enough about what he wanted to step on the elevator. His heart seemed like it would hammer a hole straight through his ribs as he heard Fushimi's footsteps behind him and the sound of the doors closing. There had been no one else in the hallway. Without looking, he was sure they were alone. Another ding as Fushimi pressed one of the numbers on the keypad.

 

A hand on his waist, insistent but not forceful. “Misaki.”

 

Fushimi struck like lightning. When he didn't immediately resist, that hand spun him and his back hitting the wall was all the warning he got before Fushimi seized his lips in a ravenous kiss. He swallowed Yata's sound of surprise, taking the opportunity to dominate Yata's tongue with his own. Yata slid his hands under the folds of his open blazer to clutch at his shirt. The rail that ran around the middle of the wall dug into his back and the ascent of the elevator made his stomach feel too light. None of it mattered. They garnered the most distant of observations before Yata forgot them entirely, not least of all because his hands grazed two thin straps that made his stomach flip for another reason.

 

“Suspenders,” he gasped against Fushimi's mouth.

 

Fushimi only pulled back far enough to reply, “I didn't know you had a thing for them.”

 

“Neither did I.”

 

Already tired of talking, he hooked his fingers under them and hauled Fushimi closer against him. He let them snap back into place with a satisfying _pop._ Fushimi gasped, fingers tightening on Yata's hip. Yata gave him the most apologetic kiss he could manage, he hadn't thought about how much that might hurt as tightly as he had pulled them, but it wasn't anger that Fushimi returned his kiss with. No, he pulled Yata's head back and began devouring him anew. So his reaction to having his lip bitten wasn't coincidence. _Freak,_ Yata thought with much more arousal than disdain.

 

He snapped them again and Fushimi shuddered against him.

 

He definitely liked the pain. Yata didn't like the idea of hurting him, but Fushimi's reactions were making him so hard that he could feel his cock throb against the seam of his slacks. He was about to keep experimenting with the newfound weakness when the elevator chimed to let them know they had arrived. Fushimi didn't step back to appear decent to anyone who might be on the other side, he just pulled Yata backward out of the elevator, halting their progress down the hallway several times with another kiss. Yata didn't know if anyone was around. He couldn't hope to focus on anything except the agonizing moments when their lips had to separate and rejoice when they met again.

 

They stumbled to a stop against a door and Fushimi reached between them to take something out of his inner jacket pocket. There was a subdued beep as the scanner recognized the card and unlocked the door. He was glad they had to pull away enough for Fushimi to reach over there, or the other man might have felt his heart skip a few nervous beats. They had gotten to the room. _Their_ room. _When did I decide I was ready for this?_ he wondered as he followed Fushimi inside. _Between the first and second glass of wine? Sometime during the meal?_

 

Sooner than that. He hadn't been ready to admit it to himself, but he'd known as soon as Fushimi hung up the day before, after Yata unraveled merely at the sound of his voice that he wanted more. He wanted the real thing (at least to some extent) and he wanted it with the person he was infuriatingly attracted to. He closed the door behind them and pulled Fushimi down by his tie to kiss him again, let him steal away his breath and his misgivings with every torrid swipe of his tongue.

 

He didn't look at the room itself until they parted for air. Fingers still loosely wrapped around Fushimi's tie, he turned to look at the lavish space. The large bed was made up with black and gold, and a black chaise lounge sat before a wall of glass just like the one in Fushimi's apartment. A piece of tasteful modern art adorned the wall over the bed but the room was devoid of the gaudy decorations that he had come to associate with expensive hotels. He guessed this was what real luxury looked like.

 

Fushimi's eyes were locked on him when he looked back up. He cleared his throat as embarrassment settled in at how eager he'd been since they left the restaurant. “I...um.” He didn't know what to say now that their momentum had slowed down.

 

“I'll tell you what,” Fushimi said, pushing forward and making Yata step back, “I'm going to work on you until you tell me to stop.”

 

Yata stumbled against the end of the bed. It pressed against the back of his knees, teetering with only Fushimi's arm around his waist to hold him up, but Fushimi didn't tip that fine balance until Yata choked out, “Okay.”

 

All the air left him at once as he fell on the bed. The soft comforter gave way to a firm mattress underneath, the combined sensations making him feel like he was being swallowed whole. Fushimi kissed him again, fleetingly, before his lips moved to trace Yata's jaw. He bit back a pleased sound as Fushimi began to kiss down the side of his neck. Fushimi's hair tickled his chin, ruffled by his harsh exhalation when teeth pulled on his earlobe. He was too stunned by how good the simple touches felt to do anything until those teeth nipped above his shirt collar and his hands flew to Fushimi's shoulders. It wasn't enough to hurt but it left a tingle that made him suspect a faint mark would be left behind. Fushimi supported himself on one hand and rested the other on Yata's chest, a finger on the first button of his shirt. Yata was too overwhelmed by the attention to do anything more than nod.

 

Fushimi pressed his lips to every inch of skin he revealed, button by button. He had only opened three and Yata was shaking. This was nothing like his limited experience with another person pleasuring him. This was Fushimi, this was a man he had spent weeks resisting, who had awoken a longing in him that had laid mostly dormant since he'd settled down from puberty. His fingers wound into the messy black locks as Fushimi got halfway down his dress shirt. He was going so slow, it was driving Yata mad and thrilling him all at once.

 

After what felt like hours, Fushimi popped the last button open and spread the shirt open across Yata's chest. He ghosted his lips over Yata's tense abdomen. “I've wanted to touch you like this since the first night I came to your apartment.”

 

His fingers clenched in Fushimi's hair. “R-really?”

 

“Wanted to do this.” Fushimi dragged his tongue neatly up the middle of Yata's abs.

 

“ _Shit_.”

 

“And this,” he said, and sucked hard below his collarbone over his tattoo, where Yata knew a bruise would become mottled within the red and black ink.

 

He gave an unsteady laugh. “I sure gave you a lot of ideas.”

 

Fushimi came back up to his face, close enough for his sideswept bangs to hang down and brush Yata's cheek. “You don't know the half of it.” He ran his leather clad hands up Yata's chest.

 

“Saru,” Yata gasped as they tickled his ribs and skimmed over his nipples. “You can, uh, you can do a little more if you want.”

 

Fushimi laughed, an almost normal sounding laugh like he might be getting the hang of it. “Oh, I want.”

 

His hands reversed their path and wandered back down Yata's body. Yata leaned up and kissed him when he couldn't handle the eye contact any longer. He was glad he didn't have to keep them open as Fushimi opened his slacks. He was even more glad to have their kiss to muffle the sound he made when Fushimi lightly stroked him through his boxers. Even through the barrier of those and Fushimi's gloves, the feeling of someone else – and Fushimi, no less – touching him there had him shaking. It took all of his restraint not to push desperately into his hand.

 

Fushimi hesitated at the elastic waistband and pulled back far enough to ask a question that Yata was already nodding to. He sat up on his elbows when Fushimi started to take his gloves off. “You can leave them on.”

 

“You kinky-”

 

“I mean, just, if you want to!” Yata said, his face on fire. He couldn't believe he said that out loud.

 

Fushimi smirked in response and lifted up enough to pull Yata's pants and boxers down to his knees. Yata raised his hips to aid the process. When he relaxed against the bed again he could feel how soft the bedding was against much more of his skin than before. He took a deep breath. He was nervous but he wasn't having any second thoughts. His shaking had increased, especially with his mostly naked body laid bare with Fushimi not saying a _damn word._ He had been in his underwear at Fushimi's apartment but now he didn't even have those and the circumstances were way different. His thought his nerves would wither his arousal but Fushimi was sitting back on his knees with fucked up hair and his jacket open far enough for Yata to see the suspenders stretched taut down his body, and he couldn't have gone soft if he tried. Even his crooked glasses were sexy in a cute way.

 

“Well,” Fushimi finally said. “I see where you make up for your lack of height.”

 

“W-w-what? I don't have, I mean, I'm not...” He continued to sputter until he finally pulled his legs together and yelled, “Don't just say shit like that!”

 

Fushimi slid his arms between Yata's knees and pushed them back apart as he leaned over him again. He let them go only to support himself with one and run a hand down Yata's inner thigh with the other. “It was a compliment, stupid.”

 

Yata squirmed at the touch. “Just shut up.”

 

Fushimi attached his lips to Yata's neck again, sucking at his pulse point under his ear. He forgot his anger and let his head fall to the side. There was just enough teeth to sting, telling him there would be a hickey that he knew he would be pissed about later, but in the moment the extra jolt of sensation just had his fingers clenching in Fushimi's hair to hold him closer. He hadn't even realized Fushimi was no longer touching his thigh until his gloved hand wrapped around and Yata's cock in a firm, slow stroke.

 

“Oh, God." His hips snapped up and his shaking reached an all time high when Fushimi did it again. “ _Saru_.”

 

“Good?” Fushimi asked, squeezing just under the head like he already knew everything Yata liked.

 

“Good. So fucking good.” He put his arm across his eyes, embarrassed by his reactions but too overwhelmed by sensation to hide them. He could feel a bead of precome welling at the head of his cock already. There was something about Fushimi stroking him, fully dressed right down to his hands, that felt lewd and dirty and _hot._ His thumb swiped across the head of Yata's cock and collected the precome there, spreading it down his length with the next stroke.

 

Fushimi raised on to his knees so he could pull Yata's arm away from his face. He slid his hand under Yata's head and forced it up, making him look down. “Look at that. You're just dripping for it.”

 

He didn't quite get his eyes closed before he saw black leather that was shiny with his fluids pumping his cock. The sight was so erotic he opened them again even as he wanted to crawl under the bed from the humiliation of seeing himself that way. Fushimi wasn't exaggerating. He was flushed and leaking down Fushimi's hand and his own member.

 

“I, um.” _How do I even say this without embarrassing myself even more?_ “I might...”

 

 _...not last long._ No way, he couldn't say it out loud! Fushimi made a sound to encourage him to continue and the bastard must have known what Yata was getting at, because even as he waited, his hand began to move faster, fingers circling tighter around the head of his cock. Yata knew what he needed to say but he had completely forgotten how to say it. He wasn't sure he could say his own name at that point. His vocabulary had been wiped clean except curses, Fushimi's name, and-

 

“Fuck, don't stop,” he begged, grasping the comforter beneath him so hard he thought he might rip it.

 

He really was going to warn Fushimi but he couldn't find the words as tension began to coil inside him. His toes curled against the stiff soles of his shoes. He knew Fushimi was watching him, sitting between his legs and too damn far away. He grabbed as high on Fushimi's shirt as he could reach and yanked him down. It didn't feel right, the heat building from Fushimi's ministrations and that being the only point of contact between them. It left him too vulnerable, sprawled out where Fushimi could watch him fall apart. He pulled Fushimi's head down.

 

“Saru,” he cried, his other hand clinging to Fushimi under his jacket. His fingers wrapped around the strap of his suspenders than ran down the middle of his back. It was the best anchor he had to keep him there.

 

Even with Yata's sudden need to have him closer, Fushimi didn't falter, his hand never losing its speed or pressure. His breathing was almost as labored as Yata's when he leaned over to his ear. “Do it,” he said.

 

He didn't have a prayer of holding back with Fushimi's voice in his ear. He was already so close that the raspy command shattered him. His hips arched one last time and he came, his body jerking against Fushimi so hard he felt like he was convulsing. The man's body above him seemed like it was the only thing keeping him from flying apart with the force of his orgasm. Fushimi obliged the silent request of his grasping hands, not moving, his hand slower but still stroking him through his release. Yata didn't realize the waves had subsided to twitching aftershocks until Fushimi's hand slid from between his legs. The full body shaking didn't seem to be going anywhere, though.

 

Fushimi got up as soon as Yata's hand went slack around the back of his suspenders. Yata's stomach clenched at the sound of the bathroom door opening. He shouldn't have been surprised by the wordless exit. Still, he was trembling far too much to right his clothes and he hadn't really been ready for Fushimi to leave yet. What they did was something new to him. He had gotten kind of physical with a couple of people but it was never like that; either Fushimi was ungodly talented with his hands or Yata was further gone on the man than he thought.

 

At least it was only a couple of minutes before Fushimi resurfaced with a small white towel and sat on the edge of the bed. Yata twitched at the overstimulation as Fushimi cleaned his crotch and then the mess on his stomach. He didn't know if the clinical treatment was from distaste or just Fushimi going all doctor on him. Fushimi got up as soon as he was done, and Yata huffed as he pulled his clothes back into place and sat up. He didn't really think Fushimi minded the cleanup or how short of a time he lasted, but it would be freaking nice if Fushimi was half as good at communicating as he was at just about everything else.

 

His knees knocked together when he first stood up, but he had asserted himself on his feet by the time Fushimi returned again. Fushimi sighed and slid his hands into Yata's back pockets as soon as he reached him. “Tch. Even now, you won't stay off your leg?”

 

His grip on Yata's ass had made him stumble forward against Fushimi and his eyes widened as they pressed together. He didn't know why he was surprised to feel the hardness against his stomach after what they were just doing but he guessed he didn't expect Fushimi to get turned on when Yata hadn't been touching him in return. There was no doubting it, though, with the evidence of his arousal between them.

 

He gave Fushimi a nudge toward the bed. “I want to do something for you, too.”

 

Fushimi pushed back just enough to resist. “You should rest.”

 

He moved with Fushimi's push, using it to pull Fushimi with him, guiding him back until he could sit on the chaise lounge. He rested his hands on Fushimi's hips and looked up. “See? No weight on my knee, doctor.”

 

“You don't have to just because I did something for you,” Fushimi said, taking Yata's face in his now bare hands.

 

Somehow even after Fushimi had touched him where so few others had before, brought him to orgasm, the way Fushimi held his face was the most intimate touch he'd felt that night. It was hard to hold on to his frustration with Fushimi's communication skills when he did stuff like that. He closed his eyes and leaned forward into the thumbs resting on his cheekbones. “I want to. I want to try, at least.” He moved his hands further in, closer to the button on Fushimi's slacks. “If you're okay with it.”

 

“I have no intentions of telling you no a third time.” Fushimi slid his suit jacket down his arms and let it drop to the floor.

 

Yata unbuttoned his slacks and pulled the zipper down, then untucked the front of his shirt. His shaking was mostly concentrated in his hands now that he was faced with the pressure of matching the incredible heights Fushimi had taken him to. He looked down at Fushimi's feet, idly realizing the weirdo was wearing boots instead of dress shoes and weirder still, he made it work. Yata stared at the toes of his boots, not wanting to look at Fushimi's face when he said, “I've never done this to another guy. I mean, I've known I liked guys since the same time I knew I liked girls but...I may not be as good at this as you are.”

 

“Pillow princess,” Fushimi scoffed. He tipped Yata's head up with a single finger under his jaw. “I would much rather you need to practice on me than think of you doing it to anyone else.”

 

 _Possessive._ Yata kind of liked it. He hooked his fingers into Fushimi's boxer briefs with more confidence. “You like it rough, right?”

 

“I need it that way.”

 

The answer surprised Yata. “What do you mean?”

 

“I don't know how to explain it. Pain...makes it real. I only understand sex in terms of muscle contractions and endorphins.” Fushimi was the one to look away this time, and it was the first time Yata saw him appear uncomfortable with anything sex related. “Pain is the only thing that feels like a feeling. I know it doesn't make sense.”

 

“Not really. But I don't have to totally understand it to accept it. I'm good as long as you don't need anything too hardcore. I can be rough with you, but I won't seriously hurt you.” Seeing Fushimi at a loss for words on how to explain something was making it easier for Yata to talk about it. He wasn't glad that Fushimi was uncomfortable but he was always so composed that it was almost a relief to see some uncertainty.

 

Fushimi ran his finger down Yata's neck. “Why not? You've been under a lot of stress lately, you should take it out on me.”

 

“No!” Yata grabbed Fushimi's hand and held it in place before he got distracted by the increasingly sensual touch. “If what I do isn't enough then tell me to stop but I'll never hurt you out of anger, whether it's anger at you or not. I care more about you than to reduce you to a punching bag.”

 

He didn't think he made some huge confession but Fushimi looked stunned. His eyes had widened behind his glasses and his hand fell out of Yata's, back to his side. He didn't look disappointed, at least. Yata's cheeks heated up at the sentimental turn of the conversation. He stood by his words but they hadn't really talked about their relationship. They had been making this up as they went along, and even though he figured it went without saying since they were going out, he hadn't voiced his feelings until now. He didn't think he'd even known what they were until the thought of hurting Fushimi turned his stomach inside out.

 

“Are you still okay with this?” he asked, tentatively resting his hand over Fushimi's half hard arousal.

 

Fushimi's eyes slipped shut. “Yes.”

 

“If you change your mind just-”

 

“There's no way I'm telling you to stop,” Fushimi said, shivering as Yata palmed him through his slacks.

 

 _Good._ Yata leaned forward between the open folds of his pants and kissed him through his underwear. He gasped as Fushimi's cock twitched under his lips; he was getting hard again. He opened his legs further and pulled Fushimi forward to stand between them. The slight tremor of anticipation his own legs made him glad he was sitting down, though in hindsight he wondered if he should have started this in front of a wall of glass. _Too late to turn back now,_ he thought, carefully pulling Fushimi out of his underwear. He couldn't get his pants down without undoing the suspenders and he was too excited to delay himself any further.

 

He groaned at the sight of his tan fingers around Fushimi's pink, slightly curved length. He kissed the flared head. “You're gorgeous here, too.”

 

“Less talking,” Fushimi said, but the harsh tone he intended was belied by the obvious embarrassment Yata heard in his voice. He guessed none of Fushimi's previous partners were big on compliments.

 

He took the head of Fushimi's now fully erect cock in his mouth. He could do this. He had watched porn, and a girl had given him head in highschool, though he only lasted a minute or two. It helped that he was motivated by wanting to show Fushimi the same pleasure he had been given. He wrapped his hand around the base of his cock to hold it steady and wrapped his lips around it just past the head. Fushimi's hands went to his hair, twisting and tugging at the strands but thankfully not pushing his head forward. He pressed his tongue against the underside of Fushimi's cock and sucked.

 

“Misaki,” Fushimi breathed.

 

Yata took that as encouragement and slid further down on Fushimi's cock, then back up to the head. He repeated the motion until he knew he had adjusted to the intrusion in his mouth. Above him, Fushimi let out soft gasps and the occasional utterance of his name. Yata pulled almost all the way off to focus his attention on the head, flicking his tongue against his slit and tasting the first drops of precome. It was a little bitter but he didn't mind it. If anything, it reassured him that he was doing good. He felt Fushimi's fingers tighten around handfuls of his hair and did it again. Fushimi moaned quietly. It was low, almost inaudible, but it was the first sound like that Yata had heard. He wanted more.

 

So far he had managed his first time giving head without choking himself. He didn't want that to change but he also wanted to find his limits. He called on his years of taking shots that hit his stomach like gasoline, of suppressed coughs from breathing in clouds of cigarette smoke, and dipped his head forward until Fushimi filled his mouth. He stomped down his gag reflex when the head of Fushimi's cock touched the back of his throat.

 

“ _Ah.”_ Fushimi made a high pitched noise that made Yata want to moan just listening to it. “Jesus, Misaki, I didn't think you had done this before.”

 

Rather than answer him, Yata began moving his head up and down again, finding that he could take him all the way into his mouth at a steady pace without choking. If he wouldn't have to explain the reason, he would thank the gang for making him match shots and destroying his gag reflex. He reached around to untuck Fushimi's shirt from the back of his pants, once again made difficult by the suspenders but not impossible. He no longer needed to steady Fushimi with his hand so he put both of them on his back. With his fingers splayed, he covered most of it, and he relished the bare skin under his palms as he touched yet another part of Fushimi's body that was new to him.

 

He pulled back for air and to ask, “You're clean, right?”

 

He would be lying if he said he didn't feel proud when Fushimi had to blink a few times and ask, “What?”

 

“You said you've had hookups at bars or whatever. I kinda figured you were since you're a doctor and probably stay safe, but you've always used protection and stuff, right?”

 

Fushimi was breathless when he said, “I get tested every month since I'm exposed to so much at the hospital. I'm clean.”

 

Yata didn't plan on letting him get his breath back. He took Fushimi back into his mouth, drowning wonderfully in the smell of arousal and the subtle cologne he wore. He slid down until the head was at the very top of his throat. He had to inhale deeply through his nose as it blocked his airway, but he was able to swallow around it, and as soon as he felt the muscles of his throat close he dragged his nails down Fushimi's back.

 

“ _Fuck_!” Fushimi cried out, one hand jerking out of Yata's hair as he pitched forward and braced himself on the window.

 

Yata leaned against the back of the chaise lounge to accommodate their change in position. He looked up Fushimi's body to his face reflected in the glass, flushed and eyes screwed tightly shut. He didn't think he was ever going to forget that expression. He committed it to memory, closed his own eyes again and set to work. He went up and all the way back down a couple times before he stopped at the top. He dug his nails into the scratches he'd left as he sucked the dripping head of his cock.

 

He heard Fushimi's hand slide down the window as he almost doubled over Yata's head. “God, Misaki, if you keep doing that- _fuck,”_ he broke off in another cry as Yata released the tip only to slide down and swallow around it with his throat.

 

He could feel Fushimi shaking under his hands. His jaw ached, but he barely gave it a passing thought as he bobbed eagerly on Fushimi's length. _Feel what I felt,_ he pleaded silently. He didn't want to scratch the same place until it bled so he centered his hands on Fushimi's back and raked his nails right down his spine.

 

“Again,” Fushimi gasped, voice cracked from moaning and nearly shouting at times. He had to let go of Yata's hair altogether to brace himself fully against the window. Yata did as he asked, dragging them back up his spine while he moved his head up and down so fast his neck hurt. It was worth it when Fushimi let out a broken sound and pushed his hips forward against Yata's mouth. “Fuck, yes, _Misaki.”_

 

Fushimi tried to pull his entire body back at once but Yata was strong, plenty strong enough to clutch his back and hold him in place as he came. He sucked him through his orgasm just as Fushimi had worked him through his. Fushimi could only repeat his name as he released into his mouth. Yata had taken him as deep as he could, unable to really taste Fushimi's come as it went straight down his throat. The only way he knew his orgasm had ended was the way the cries of his name gradually became quieter and further apart until they ceased entirely. He only pulled back when they were replaced by wordless gasps for air.

 

He got to his feet and grabbed Fushimi around the waist. As long as he had stood and after he stood up through his orgasm, he knew his legs couldn't have much left. Having to stumble back under Yata's guidance did them in and he found himself supporting much more of Fushimi's weight as his legs stopped cooperating. He maneuvered them back until they could fall on the bed. They hit the mattress with no grace, feet on the ground but no longer responsible for holding them up.

 

He turned on his side to face Fushimi. “Tonight...wow. Tonight was incredible.”

 

Fushimi was on his side, as well. He didn't respond – possibly because he was still out of breath, judging from how fast his chest was rising and falling – but he wrapped his hand around the back of Yata's neck and pulled him into a kiss. It was close enough to an agreement for Yata to be happy. He put his arm around Fushimi's waist and indulged his lips with no other purpose than to be kissing, with no heat or tension. It was pointless and perfect.

 

 _I guess there's no point in trying to slow it down now,_ he thought, enamored by the way Fushimi's waist fit in the crook of his arm. He wanted to chalk it up to post coital bliss but he knew whether it was in that moment or in a few hours when he was asleep in his own bed, it wasn't going to change.

 

_I'm falling for you so goddamn fast._

 


	12. Galvanize

Yata didn't know how long they just laid around, touching and making idle conversation that didn't feel like small talk. It seemed like forever and not long enough at the same time. The sun had long set by the time they started making themselves presentable enough to leave, their view of Manhattan now a myriad of electric colors against a black sky. He sat on the edge of the bed while Fushimi tried to bring his hair under control. He had to resist the temptation to just slide behind him and spend a little longer with his arms around that scrawny waist. They never cuddled, per say, Fushimi never staying in his embrace for longer than Yata could keep him distracted with kisses.

 

He looked up at a mumbled curse and found Fushimi's hair still getting the best of him. “Hey, hey. Stop before you pull it all out. Hold still.” He did crawl over to sit on the bed behind him but rather than hold him, he pulled Fushimi's hands away from his tangled locks.

 

Fushimi huffed but he didn't protest Yata carefully working through his hair. All of it wasn't going to lay down without some product but he could at least make it look less like he had spent an hour in a windstorm. One of the longer pieces in the front was having none of it, though. Yata sighed and began twisting it between his fingers.

 

“Your hair isn't very long,” Fushimi said.

 

Yata waited for more but he didn't say anything else. “No, not really.”

 

“You're decent with hair but I wouldn't expect yours to need much maintenance.”

 

Yata laughed. His hair could probably use a little more care than he gave it but it just didn't matter to him if it stuck out in different directions. “My little sister always had me fix her hair for her. Mom would pull the crap out of it if Megumi asked her but I was a softie so she would come to me.” He held the end of the section of hair he had braided and did some wriggling to get his wallet out of his back pocket with the other. He took the bobby pin out of the credit card slot and pinned the braid against the side of Fushimi's head. He pulled a few strands down to cover the pin. “There you go, all done.”

 

Fushimi touched the side of his head. “Why do you have a hairpin? Do you often find yourself rushing to Megumi's aid when she's having a hair emergency?”

 

“It's for picking locks. I don't carry a proper pick set since I'm nowhere near as good as Tatara but I figured it couldn't hurt to have one just in case.”

 

“You know, it's easy to forget you participate in anything illegal,” Fushimi said tauntingly.

 

Yata glared at the back of his head. “I don't know how.”

 

“Because as obsessed as you are with them, you don't seem like you belong with HOMRA.”

 

The words struck an old chord, sending once buried doubts ringing through his mind, and he moved from behind Fushimi to get off the bed. “We should probably get going.”

 

“You almost seem offended that I don't think you fit in with a bunch of lowlife criminals,” Fushimi said, following him to the door.

 

Yata whirled on his heel. “Don't call them that!” He actually saw a flash of surprise on Fushimi's face and the anger bled out as quickly as it arrived. He knew Fushimi didn't mean anything by it, he never did when he started running his mouth. He let his head fall forward against Fushimi's chest. “Sorry. I didn't mean to snap, but seriously, please don't talk about them that way. They look out for me.”

 

Fushimi tolerated the affection long enough to pat the top of Yata's head and then push him back to a standing position. “Let's go.”

 

It wasn't an acceptance of his apology or an agreement to what he asked, but walking behind Fushimi in the hallway he saw less of the tension that usually lingered in his shoulders. He was pretty sure the conversation was already forgotten. _Honestly, do you just talk to hear your own voice?_ Not that it wasn't a nice voice but yeesh, he could give it a rest once in awhile. Yata wasn't much better, though, finding himself unable to muster any real frustration with him. It still got to him sometimes but he knew Fushimi just liked riling him up.

 

They checked out and headed for the parking garage. There was a plethora of expensive cars but luckily the lights flashed on the Audi when Fushimi unlocked it remotely and saved them some searching. Yata guessed it would have been easy for Fushimi to find his car but to him all the dark, sleek cars in the garage were similarly built price tags on wheels.

 

The parking garage opened up to the street and Fushimi shifted up as they turned out. He drummed his fingers on his thigh for a moment. Then, in such a subtle way that Yata wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't watching him, he turned his hand to let his palm face up. His eyes were fixed on the road but the restless twitch of his fingers betrayed him.

 

Yata reached over and took his hand. That feeling in his chest just kept constricting tighter. 

 

 

 

Staring at the brass letters and wooden door, Reisi resigned himself to a lifetime of poor decision making.

 

Drinking at HOMRA wasn't supposed to be a nightly occurrence. He lived in the opposite direction, for heaven's sake. If anything, he preferred the artsy, high profile aesthetic of Long Island City to the grittier scene of Flushing. But there he was, still in his scrubs, pushing open the door to a bar belonging to arms dealers. He navigated through the bar – more crowded than the night before – and found the same stool empty. He sighed. Fate had an interesting sense of humor.

 

“Dr. Munakata,” the bartender said cheerfully.

 

Suoh had mentioned the man's name when explaining his absence, and Reisi plucked it out of his memory. “Izumo. Back to work this evening, then?”

 

“I can't leave the place in Mikoto's hands for too long. What are you drinking?”

 

“Johnny Walker on the rocks. Blue Label.”

 

Izumo flipped the towel he had been polishing glasses with over his shoulder and grabbed the bottle. “You have refined taste.”

 

“I did my time with bottom shelf liquors, I'm afraid I no longer have the stomach for them.”

 

“If there's anything worth treating yourself to, it's quality alcohol.” Izumo folded a red napkin, sprinkled it with salt and placed the drink on it. “I have to say I didn't expect you to be a regular, though. I figured you would rather sip martinis at a piano bar in Manhattan.”

 

Reisi chuckled. “I would be lying if I said I had never done that very thing.”

 

Feet came pounding down a set of stairs that he didn't even realize existed until a man appeared from a narrow hallway at the end of the bar. He had silky, light brown hair that looked to be on the damp side. Reisi remembered him from his first visit to HOMRA, but he didn't think he had ever heard the man's name. He watched with amusement as he went behind the bar and ducked under Izumo's arm to grab a bottle of tequila off the shelf. Izumo already had his arm raised by the time he turned back around and they gracefully reversed their positions as the brunette chose a glass. Reisi smiled into his drink; those two had known each other awhile.

 

“Hey, Doc,” the brunette said, making some kind of mixed drink.

 

Izumo reached over his shoulder and plucked the tequila out of his hand. “Woah there, Tats, I think that's enough. I'm not carrying you if you pass out drunk.”

 

“Sure you will,” the brunette replied, and turned a hundred-watt smile on Izumo as he stirred his drink. The nickname jogged Reisi's memory of someone addressing the man before – this was Tatara.

 

“So, you live above the bar?” Reisi asked, eyeing the hair that hadn't quite dried.

 

Izumo let out a long suffering sigh. “No, I do. He's just a mooch.”

 

“But I'm a cute mooch!”

 

“You better be glad.” Izumo flicked the slightly shorter man on the nose before swapping another patron's beer with a fresh one.

 

Squalling tires drew everyone's attention to the door, as the sound came from just outside. Mikoto crashed through it a second later. “Everybody get the fuck out.”

 

It must have been common knowledge around the city who the bar belonged to, as there was minimal uproar at the sudden eviction. A few people even took the time to throw bills down before they ran for the door. Mikoto gave no explanation, but no one seemed like they wanted to question him. The MAC-10 in his hand might have been responsible for that.

 

Izumo reached under the bar. “JUNGLE.”

 

“And a fuck ton of them,” Mikoto said, and tufts of fabric from the curtains along with shards of glass exploded behind him as the window was sprayed with bullets from outside. “I guess they didn't like our artwork.”

 

Reisi didn't need told twice to vacate and got to his feet. As soon as his shoes hit the hardwood, though, the men he could only assume were JUNGLE came through the door and he didn't think it was water guns they were holding. Well. It didn't appear he would be skipping out on his tab after all. He saw a muzzle come toward him and ducked down. Glass burst in every direction as the bullet hit his drink instead of him. A waste of excellent liquor, but he couldn't find himself feeling much regret with the gunshot still echoing in his ears.

 

“Stay down, Doc!” Izumo yelled from the other side of the bar.

 

He must have pulled Tatara down behind it and was using it for cover, as a spray of bullets passed over him that sounded like they were coming from right above his head. Reisi wiped away a splatter of blood on his cheek, careful to use the sleeve of his jacket in case its owner was diseased. He rose from his knees into a more stable crouch.

 

“Suoh, do you have another weapon?” he shouted over the chaos.

 

Mikoto whipped a man across the face with his gun and held his limp body as a shield against the next array of bullets that came his way. “Got an automatic pistol on my back.”

 

Reisi did a quick analysis of the room. Several of the intruders were already down. They had done a good job of preventing them from advancing, so the remaining men were close to the door. Too many bullets were flying to identify the best opening but he wasn't going to stay on the ground and wait for one to hit him. He remembered heavy hands sitting on his shoulders, a smile on a scarred face as Zenjo said, _You didn't come here to fight, but one day you might have to choose between their life or yours._

 

He chose his own.

 

He kept his body as low to the ground as possible as he rolled forward. He reached under Mikoto's jacket as he got to his feet and pulled the handgun out of his waistband. The reckless idiot already had the safety off. Back to back with HOMRA's leader, he stretched his arm in the opposite direction of Mikoto's and fired. He didn't enjoy the anguished cry that rang out as the shot pierced the man's dominant shoulder but he knew from the location that it wouldn't damage the rotator cuff or any major nerves. It would heal.

 

“I'm out,” Mikoto said.

 

They spun and Reisi took Mikoto's position facing the door, fired on one of the last remaining men as Mikoto reloaded. He heard the magazine snap into place and Mikoto let loose a rapid series of shots through the busted window. Someone yelled outside. Whether it was Mikoto's target or a horrified witness, Reisi didn't know.

 

The only remaining member trained his gun on them, but it was shaking so violently that it would have been lucky to hit the table next to them. The ceiling was probably in more danger from it than they were. As Mikoto aimed, the man's scream covered the sound of his gun hitting the floor. His hand dripped red onto the hardwood. Reisi and Mikoto turned to find Izumo lowering a small, silver handgun, eyes hidden behind tinted glasses but doing nothing to conceal the fury that twisted the rest of his face.

 

“They trashed my bar,” he said.

 

Everyone waited a beat. No one else tried to come inside.

 

Mikoto released the magazine from the MAC-10 and put them inside his jacket. “Still no Nagare,” he said, sounding disappointed.

 

A towel came hurling across the bar and hit him square in the face as Izumo shouted “You're helping clean this up!” He seemed appeased when Mikoto took the towel without complaint, and said more calmly, “I'm going to take Tatara home. He doesn't do well with blood.”

 

“Get him outta here. I don't need bodies and vomit to clean up, too.”

 

Izumo grabbed his keys from under the bar. “And don't let Chitose dissolve them in my bathtub again!”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Mikoto groused.

 

The door shut behind Izumo and a pale, silent Tatara, and Reisi numbly held the gun out to Mikoto. He stared at the carnage that had overtaken the bar. Minutes, mere minutes ago, the place had been alive with customers and music. Now there was wreckage and rival gang members from wall to wall. Most of them were knocked out or clutching a bullet hole in some extremity or another, but some of them laid in pools of blood too big for Reisi to think they would get back up. He reasoned with himself that those he had shot in self defense were probably going to survive only because it had been him and not Mikoto, who had no regard for their lives.

 

He knew frequenting HOMRA was a bad idea but he didn't expect to get proven right so quickly.

 

“I'm surprised the police haven't arrived yet,” he said.

 

Mikoto tapped a cigarette out of the pack and put it between his lips. “They may not. Gunshots around here ain't nothing new. Besides, we've got a guy in the police department so even if this got enough attention for them to show up, he'll buy us some time. You should probably split anyway just to be safe,” he added, flipping his lighter open.

 

“Men died here,” Reisi said.

 

“Rats died here.”

 

“It doesn't weigh on you at all?”

 

Mikoto exhaled a plume of smoke, the acrid tang mixing with the coppery scent of blood in the air. “They've tried to kill two of mine already. I'm not waiting to see if third time's the charm.”

 

“It's them or you,” Reisi sighed.

 

“There you go. You get it.”

 

Reisi threw a few bills on the counter, in one of the few dry spaces not covered in alcohol from abandoned drinks becoming the victims of stray bullets. “Not especially. People die every day on foreign soil for a just cause. I can't imagine choosing such a vile and destructive thing as war.”

 

“I didn't start this one,” Mikoto snapped.

 

His tone halted Reisi on his way to the door. It seemed to stem more from pain than anger. To anyone else, he might have sounded like he was ready to rain fire down on the person who dare suggested he instigated the fight with JUNGLE, but to Reisi he just sounded tired.

 

Reisi, his disagreements with this man's choices aside, found himself turning to ask, “Do you have a first aid kit here?”

 

 

 

The Audi glided to a stop at the curb. Yata felt like it had been longer than just a few hours since he left the apartment. The time they spent together in the hotel room seemed to have lasted forever, as he had left the Mandarin Oriental with Fushimi etched into him so much deeper than when they arrived. He watched the sign flash at the gas station on the corner. He looked at it without really seeing it, too preoccupied with feeling like he finally understood some fraction of Fushimi, a tiny piece of who he was under the brilliance and the indifference and the boundless sarcasm.

 

“Earth to Misaki.”

 

He unbuckled his seatbelt. “Heh, sorry. I'm just worn out. In a good way,” he added hastily.

 

“I'll walk you up.”

 

He didn't argue against having a little more time together. Their shadows stretched long and gangly under the yellow glow of the streetlamps. Inside, Fushimi was slow to ascend the stairs, which Yata expected was more for his benefit than for Fushimi's legs that were used to trekking around a hospital all day. The pace left only a minor ache in his thigh by the time he reached his door.

 

Fushimi kissed him soundly. His mouth remained closed and his hands sedentary on his waist, but it was still enough to make Yata's heartrate spike until he pulled away. It would have been easy to pull him back down and continue; easier still to unlock the door and pick up where they left off at the hotel. And damn if Fushimi wasn't a tempting sight in his suit and hair that never quite laid back down after their earlier activities.

 

For the night, though, Yata was satisfied and exhausted. He slid his arms around Fushimi's waist to rest his hands on his back. “You should come over next time you're not tied up at school or the hospital.”

 

“Are you going to tie me up instead?”

 

_You'd like that, you freak._ “I'm gonna make you dinner, weirdo.”

 

“You know,” Fushimi said, draping his forearms on Yata's shoulders, “we don't have to eat every time we're together.”

 

“I don't trust you to eat if I don't make you, since you apparently don't realize you can't have education for breakfast. So, pick a day that works for you. Text me.” He had to muster his confidence to make demands on Fushimi's time after he had been warned that he didn't have much to spare but he felt like it was his turn to make plans and then some, after the lengths Fushimi had gone to that night.

 

“I'm testing out of another class this week. I'll let you know when that's over.”

 

Yata narrowed his eyes. “You better tell me how your exam goes this time!”

 

“Fine. What are you doing, by the way?” he drawled.

 

Yata didn't realize he was doing anything until Fushimi asked and he found his fingers lightly running down the taller man's back through his jacket. He knew he must have turned bright red when he said, “Nothing. I just...I know you wanted it and everything, but I hope I didn't hurt you too bad.”

 

Fushimi rolled his eyes. “Tch. You worry too much.” He took Yata's face in his hands, making it flush even hotter when he thought of the reason he no longer had his gloves. “Go inside.”

 

“Yeah, goodnight to you, too.”

 

His attitude was swallowed up by another kiss, though he was pretty sure its only purpose was to get him to close his eyes when Fushimi murmured against his lips, “Goodnight, you idiot.”

 

Fushimi's back was already to him when he opened his eyes. He grinned and unlocked the apartment. He just stood there, watching the tall, retreating figure until a beeping sound reminded him he had to disarm the security panel. He shut the door and punched in the code. It felt silly but he was already looking forward to the next time they saw each other. He got to cook for Fushimi, and it would be just the two of them again. His eyes darted to the partial second floor that made up his bedroom and anticipation curled warm and heady in his stomach. 

 

He wondered if Fushimi felt the same way about seeing him again, and then he remembered what he said in the hotel room.

 

_Pain is the only thing that feels like a feeling._

 

What did that even mean? He kicked his shoes off and sat on the couch, knowing he'd have to wind down before he was able to sleep. If Fushimi had said pain was the only thing that he could get off on, Yata would have been concerned but figured it for an extreme case of masochism (and the only case he'd ever experienced but he guessed that would be considered extreme). The way he put it sounded like more than that. Yata considered the possibility that he couldn't feel softer touches, maybe had some weird nerve thing going on. Or maybe it was a mental thing and he just didn't get that turned on unless it was rough. He chucked his phone onto the cushion beside him with a sigh. He had come to understand a tiny piece of him that night but he knew he still had a lot to learn.

 

He saw a light flash in the corner of his eye; the blue notification light on his phone. He wondered how long he'd had an unread text message since he couldn't remember the last time he had bothered to check. The chime that alerted him to new texts could have easily gotten lost in the background noise of the restaurant or gone unnoticed altogether if it was after they got to the room.

 

He unlocked his phone and opened his messaging screen. There was a text from Izumo sent just under an hour ago that simply read: **J shot up the bar**

 

Blood pounded in his ears. He read the message two, three more times before he processed them. His brain finally caught up and he pounded the phone icon next to Izumo's name on the screen. It took a couple of tries before his shaking finger landed on it.

 

“Yata.”

 

“You could have tried harder to get in touch with me!” he yelled to Izumo's calm greeting. He would have been a lot more likely to hear his ringtone than the single sound his phone made for a text.

 

“It's not like the whole gang showed up. We had it under control.”

 

He clenched his fist on his leg. He was supposed to be HOMRA's defense. “Is anybody hurt?”

 

“JUNGLE followed Mikoto there and everybody packed it up when he came in guns blazing. Only person who didn't get out was Doc.”

 

No. No, no, no. His knees rattled together. Of all the people that could have been there, all the perfect strangers that didn't mean a damn thing to him, _not_ Doc. Not Fushimi's fucking mentor. “God fucking _dammit_ ,” he ground out between his teeth.

 

“I think it'll be fine. I left him with Mikoto to take Tatara home, he didn't look like he was going to make a run for the cops. He probably isn't that stupid now that his prints are on Mikoto's Glock.”

 

“Wait, he's okay? I thought you said he didn't get out!”

 

“Stop yellin' at me, he's fine. He just didn't get out of there before the shooting started. He's alright, though, seemed like he could take care of himself.”

 

Yata sagged against the back of the couch. If Izumo wasn't his senior, he might have yelled at him some more for scaring him like that. “How bad off is the bar?”

 

“Pretty bad. I'd steer clear of it for now, but we're at Tatara's place if you want to come meet up with us here.”

 

“I'll be there in twenty.” He hung up and stared at the ceiling. His apartment was fucking cursed. He swore if he was there for more than ten peaceful minutes, he was bound to get a phone call or a visit to his door that had him running off to deal with an emergency. “I'm gonna move,” he muttered, getting to his feet.

 

Traffic wasn't bad that time of night so he was right on time when he threw the kickstand of his bike down in front of Tatara's building. It was small, housing only eight apartments; likely because they were monstrous in size. He jogged up the stairs (he could just hear Fushimi scolding him) and knocked on the door to the third floor apartment. He would rather be on the very top or bottom but Tatara had just shrugged because “it was like being in the middle of a hug, and you can't go wrong with hugs!” He might have got a more sensible answer if he had brought it up _before_ Tatara was on his fourth daiquiri.

 

Tatara opened the door with a weary smile. “Come on- Woah.” His eyes dropped and then widened. Then he started to laugh, loud and fake. “Look at you, all dressed up and nowhere to go!” He yanked his scarf off and Yata flinched as it flew toward him, but it wrapped around his neck with such a precise flick of Tatara's wrist that Yata wondered if he carried a whip somewhere under all the designer clothes.

 

Tatara pulled him inside and leaned down to his ear as Yata passed him. “Do not touch that scarf,” he whispered fiercely.

 

All Yata could do was nod, as Izumo had just surfaced from the bathroom. He looked like he had just splashed water on his face. “If Mikoto is going to stick it out at the bar I guess I better head back, too.” He stopped in front of Tatara. “Our addresses shouldn't be listed anywhere JUNGLE can access them but I'm going to leave Yata here with you just in case they try anything else.”

 

Tatara crossed his arms. “I don't like fighting but I'm not totally helpless.”

 

“Call it the buddy system, then. Just stay put and stay safe, okay?” He ran a hand over the top of Tatara's hair and melted his scowl into more of a pout.

 

Yata stepped out of the way of the door, but not before he said, “I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner. With everything going on, I should have kept a better eye on my phone.”

 

“Don't worry about it. It's not like anyone had time to call you once shots started getting fired, and by the time it was over you couldn't have done anything. Keep this one out of trouble and let's call it even.” Just enough light was hitting Izumo's glasses for Yata to see him wink before he fished his keys out of his pocket and left. Yata laughed; ever the mama bear.

 

Tatara had already folded himself onto the couch. Yata sat on the other end and put his feet on the mint green ottoman. Even though the bright colors and pastels were an eyesore, he thought Tatara's apartment was the coziest. It was cluttered with expensive things that lined the shelves or closets just because they were expensive, and you couldn't go more than a few feet without there being something soft to sit on. It was a place where Yata could walk in and immediately know who it belonged to.

 

Speaking of soft, “What was with the scarf attack?”

 

“Izumo's not mad right now but I don't think either one of them would be too happy if they saw the fancy clothes _and_ the hickey and realized two plus two equaled four.”

 

He didn't have to ask to know the other person Tatara was talking about was the boss. “Thanks for covering for me,” he said, tugging on the end of the scarf.

 

“That's what we do.” Tatara turned to stretch his legs out and drop his polka-dotted socked feet in Yata's lap. “Since I've been grounded and you're my babysitter, you might as well tell me about your night. And _don't_ ask me if I'm okay,” he said as if he could feel the concern radiating off of Yata. “I'm not made out of paper. I'm fine, and I had to tell Izumo that every five minutes, so please talk to me about something besides the gunfight at the bar.”

 

“My night was...good.” He didn't know how he was supposed to condense such an experience into words, let alone words that he could say out loud without dying of mortification.

 

Tatara raised a foot to poke Yata's neck with his big toe. “I figured that much, tiger. I want details.”

 

“D-details?” he sputtered.

 

“Yes! I kept you from getting yelled at by Izumo, the least you can do is let me live vicariously through your love life.” Tatara dramatically flopped his head back on a shaggy white throw pillow.

 

He guessed he did owe Tatara for that. “Well. We had dinner at this really nice place called Asiate.”

 

“Okaaay.”

 

“And then we hung out for awhile in a room at the hotel.”

 

“Getting warmer.”

 

So was his face. Geez. He didn't want to talk about this. “And we did some stuff. We didn't go all the way or anything.”

 

“Good for you. I don't care what the other two sticks-in-the-mud say, it's nice to have some companionship. How's Fushimi in bed?”

 

“I can't tell you that!” He looked over and got a patient, unwavering stare. Dammit. Seriously, was Tatara stuck in the mentality of a highschooler? He ran his fingers over the matching throw pillow squished between him and the arm of the couch, idly plucking at the white fluff. “He's incredible. Of course. The bastard's good at everything.”

 

“Hey, Yata.”

 

He glanced over at the suddenly serious tone to find an equally somber expression on Tatara's face. “Yeah?”

 

“I admire your devotion to HOMRA. Really, I do. But...and don't you ever tell anyone I said this, but don't give up your life for it.”

 

“Where the hell did that come from?” He didn't mean to sound angry but if this was leading up to someone making him choose, he wasn't about to walk away from HOMRA, he had committed his life to it as soon as he got the mark on his body. He saw Tatara's eyes fall to his lap and tried to take the edge out of his voice. “Did you have to give something up?”

 

“Guns and violence have never been my thing. Who knows what I would be doing if I wasn't in this gang, but I could never leave. I would be leaving my heart behind. I'm just saying you're still young and this is a hard life.”

 

He heard the thickness in Tatara's voice and started to feel the impact of his words. “You're saying I should get out.”

 

“People are getting crippled and dying, and it's going to keep getting worse. It's getting dangerous.” His eyes began to redden and Yata could see the moisture gathering there. “It's getting scary. _I'm_ scared. I may be in way too deep to get out, but you, and Anna, she's so _young-”_ He broke off with a strangled sound and pressed his hand over his mouth like he could shove the emotions back inside.

 

“It's gonna be okay. We just have to stick together and we can beat JUNGLE,” Yata assured him. “Besides, you guys are my family. I'm not gonna take off as soon as shit gets hard.”

 

Tatara sniffled but smiled. “You're stubborn. It's no wonder you fit in with us so well.”

 

_You fit in._ Yata mirrored his smile, hearing what he had seldom ever been told. He grabbed the remote off the end table and turned the TV on. Tatara could fall into a funk when he was down like this, but Yata knew he could salvage his mood with Gossip Girl reruns. He plastered the most relaxed expression on his face that he could while Tatara's words crawled under his skin. It wasn't the dying and the shootouts that scared him, but seeing the person who always smiled and stayed optimistic start to break down, that was fucking terrifying. 

 

 

 

The tweezers gave a _tink_ as they connected with the glass shard. Reisi closed it between them and pulled it out. As with the rest, Mikoto didn't flinch or make a sound. One of the bar ashtrays was steadily filling up with the stray fragments that stuck in his back after the window surrendered to the gunfire and blew out. Reisi expected all of the tiny wounds were all bleeding somewhat but most of them blended into the various shades of red ink that covered the gang leader's back. He was careful not to touch Mikoto since of all the supplies they had at the bar including a roll of surgical tools, they didn't have gloves. He would have rather autoclaved the tools but he had to settle for ninety-one percent alcohol.

 

The longer he worked, the more he noticed the uneven ribbons of ink where it was tattooed over a scar. They were even more obvious on the bare skin, such as the long healed knife wound between his ribs. He resisted the urge to run his finger over the white line. Between the ribs at an upward angle; someone had struck to kill. He wondered how many times Mikoto Suoh had danced with death.

 

“You sure are calm for a guy sitting around with a bunch of bodies,” Mikoto said, tucking his feet under the bottom rung of the barstool.

 

Reisi, standing behind him, grabbed the next piece of glass a little harder than necessary. “I did everything I could for those with a chance of survival. Two of them were fatally wounded.” He had watched Mikoto drag those two bodies down a service hallway and tried not to think of what might have happened to them after that.

 

“Y'know, it wasn't always like this. People didn't start dying until they shot Yata in a damn warehouse. Maybe they were planning to shoot me, maybe they just wanted to start shit, but either way he could have died. I could have, Izumo could have. I didn't start takin' lives until they tried to take one of mine.”

 

“I understand your reasons but I'll never approve of them. I've dedicated my life to saving others, I could never condone killing.”

 

Mikoto turned his head just far enough to look at Reisi from the corner of one gold eye. “Then why haven't you turned me in to the cops?”

 

“That wouldn't put a stop to the rest of HOMRA's violence. Besides, I shudder to think what lengths they would go to and how many lives would be lost in the attempt to get you out of police custody.”

 

Mikoto faced forward again but didn't respond. He reached for the bottle of Johnny Walker Black he had on the bar, briefly forcing Reisi to pause as it caused his shoulder blades to shift and his back to tense. Mikoto took a long swig from the bottle and sat it back down, letting his defined trapezius muscles relax and Reisi go back to work. He was on the last couple of pieces.

 

“I'm surprised you would fix up a gangster like me,” Mikoto said.

 

Reisi let the last shard fall into the ashtray and stepped back. “It's not a doctor's place to judge who deserves to be cared for. Just like the ones lying over there, and you, all men are equal under my knife.”

 

“You're one strange guy, Munakata.” Mikoto's phone buzzed on the bartop, and he was on his feet as soon as he read the message. “That's Bando. We're gonna have company soon, you better get out of here.”

 

“I don't need to be told twice. I might have a hard time explaining to the hospital board why I was present at such a scene.”

 

“And hey.”

 

Reisi stopped at the door, looked back at Mikoto pulling his shirt over his head. “What?”

 

“When all this is over, we should have drinks again.”

 

Reisi stayed as stoic as he could while fighting amusement. Honestly, this man was persistent. He pushed the door open. “We'll see.”

 

He was profusely glad he parked alongside the restaurant across the street and not in front of the bar or he probably wouldn't have much of a vehicle left. He gave the unscathed seat of his Harley an affectionate pat before sitting down and starting her up. He disengaged the lock he had used to secure his full face helmet to one of the handles. With the visor flipped down in front of his glasses, he pulled away from the curb and the remains of bar HOMRA, weighed down by overwhelming certainty that he hadn't seen the last of Mikoto Suoh yet.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anna is on a date with Sukuna in this chapter if anybody is wondering. They're going to be so confused when they get back.


	13. Godless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I have a big favor to ask you guys, and I'm asking from the bottom of my heart because it would mean so much to me if you could do this.  
> My husband has started a podcast called Wanna Play Some Games? by Flourine Fire and he is pouring so much work and passion into this, but there are so many freaking podcasts out there that it's hard to get one off the ground. He is on every imaginable social media platform (Twitter, Facebook, Patreon) and his podcast is available on Anchor, Spotify, and many many more. If you could take the time to listen to his podcast or even just share his Facebook page with your friends if gaming isn't your thing, I would appreciate it so much. I've been lucky enough to share what I love with an amazing, supportive group of people here on A03 and I just want the same thing for him.  
> His username is Flourine Fire on every platform including Xbox Live if you want to play some games with him! Just send him a message on Live and let him know you listened to his podcast.  
> Thank you so much for helping me support him in this <3 He doesn't know I write this story so please don't mention where you heard this from lol but I would be so grateful if you could give it a listen or help spread the word!
> 
> This chapter may undergo some later editing but I'm late for work and I wanted to post it lol

Yata lingered at the desk with two coffees. The nurse had gone back to ask after Fushimi, and now he just stood there, a healthy adult in a waiting room full of parents with their sick children. It only added to how awkward he already felt for being there. He hadn't even been certain Fushimi was there but he figured it was a safe bet since he had texted him a couple hours ago and not heard back yet. Like last time, he had planned to leave Fushimi alone to focus on studying and interning, but he found himself standing in Mount Sinai's pediatric wing just two days after they said goodbye in front of his apartment. He justified it to himself as concern for Fushimi since he had such poor habits that seemed to increase proportionately with his workload. Of course Fushimi had lived this long without his intervention and there was Doc to look out for him but then Yata lost his excuse so he didn't acknowledge those things.

 

“He's with a patient right now but the attending said you can go ahead and come back,” the nurse said, returning to the desk.

 

He bumped the door she had come through open with his shoulder and raised one of the cups in a sort of caffeinated salute. “Thanks.”

 

It opened to a wide space he remembered from when he brought Minoru in. There was the nurse's station in the middle and then two wide hallways that branched off in either direction. It occurred to him as he walked up to the U-shaped desk that he should have asked what room Fushimi was in so he at least knew where to wait, but he figured this was where Fushimi would come when he was done anyway.

 

“Mr. Yata,” said a pleasant, feminine voice from behind him.

 

He recognized the curvy blonde instantly as the doctor who treated Minoru, but her name evaded him. “Oh, hey! I hope it's okay for me to wait here, if not I can just leave these-”

 

“It's fine.” She reached over and took a clipboard from the other side of the desk. “How is your little brother doing?”

 

Guilt prickled in his chest. He had barely talked to Minoru since then other than one phone call to make sure he was fully recovered from that weird exotic fever. “He's good. You guys seem busy tonight,” he said, eager to change the subject.

 

“I haven't even been able to stop for a granola bar!” cried the man sitting at the nurse's station, his emerald eyes wide like he couldn't believe fate could be so cruel.

 

The blonde doctor shot him a severe look. “You just got here an hour ago, Andy.”

 

_Wait a minute_. Andy...oh, him. Yata tried not to grimace. Andy was one of Fushimi's fellow students, the flirtatious one he met when he picked Fushimi up from school. He didn't recognize him in scrubs with the front portion of his hair pulled back in a short ponytail at the back of his head.

 

Then the long haired medical student he actually wanted to see emerged from a room, shifting through some papers in his arms. Without looking up, he said, “Seri, that arm is definitely broken but it's a clean break, should heal without any permanent weakness in her forearm.”

 

The blonde doctor – Seri, apparently – cleared her throat to draw Fushimi's attention from the x-ray he was looking at. Yata flushed. He didn't plan on interrupting him while he was trying to work.

 

He held out one of the cups. “Hey, Sunshine.”

 

“Hey, you,” Fushimi purred, taking the cup only to sit it back on the high counter of the nurse's station and wrap his hand around the back of Yata's neck instead.

 

His stomach fluttered pleasantly as he knew what that touch meant, and he tilted his head back to let Fushimi kiss him. Judging by the sudden murmurs and outright cries of surprise, no one had realized he was bringing coffee as more than a friendly gesture. He turned a shy smile up to Fushimi when he pulled away.

 

“I hope you don't mind me dropping by,” he said, fingers curled around the black scrubs where he held Fushimi's shoulder.

 

Fushimi tried to lean down and kiss him again to convey just how little he minded and Yata pushed him back with a chuckle. “There are kids around, better keep it PG.” Plus his attending doctor and fellow students. Yata didn't bother listing them, though, just gave one of Fushimi's earrings a playful flick before stepping out of his reach. He didn't want to get him in trouble because Fushimi couldn't keep his hands off (not that it wasn't flattering).

 

“I didn't believe him when he said he was seeing somebody,” Andy said, gaping.

 

Another student had come from the opposite hallway in time to see the display, a brunette with bangs covering one side of his face. “I thought he was going to die alone,” he said flatly.

 

“Be nice, both of you,” Seri said.

 

Their hands both shot up in salutes. “Yes, ma'am!”

 

Seri let out a weary sigh. It made her look less like a doctor than an overworked mother. If Fushimi's classmates were anything like him, Yata could only imagine how exhausting her job was.

 

“You're still on call so I'ma take off,” he said.

 

Fushimi took a long drink of coffee. “I take my exam tomorrow.”

 

“Dinner tomorrow night, then. Just let me know when you're headed over.” He nodded to Seri and the other two students. “I'll get out of your hair.”

 

“Bye Fushimi's boyfriend!” Andy called after him.

 

He turned to wave and threw a final glance at Fushimi, somehow sexy in Batman scrubs with the florescent lights calling out the dark circles under his eyes. He met Yata's stare impassively but Yata was learning to look past that to the smaller details that betrayed him; the slight upward turn of his mouth, the relaxed way he leaned on the desk. He had felt it in the press of their lips together.

 

A smile of his own had worked its way to his mouth by the time he left the hospital. _You got 'em all fooled, don't you Saruhiko?_

 

_But not me._

 

His good mood stayed with him all the way to one of the last places he thought he would visit by choice. He turned off the bike and stared up at the brick building with a sign that read _Crystal_ in pink cursive writing. The afternoon sun threw tiny rainbows off the fake jewels hanging in the window. He told himself it was to check on Fushimi, but it was purely for his own benefit that he went to the hospital. He needed something to buoy his spirits and keep him from talking himself out of this.

 

He puffed his cheeks and blew out a gust of air. Now or never, he guessed. A bell chimed over his head as he pushed the door open. Dragon's blood incense hit his nose before he was all the way over the threshold. At least the iguana was gone, though, its cage sitting empty by the beaded curtain that led to the private room for seances and purification rituals. No one was behind the sales counter for the shop. _Real professional, Mom._

 

“Saki!”

 

A tiny body topped by a mane of red curls burst through the curtain and he opened his arms to catch her. “Hey there, pretty girl.”

 

“I haven't seen you in, like, years!” Megumi yelled in his ear. Ow.

 

“I know, I'm sorry. I promise I'll make it up to you.”

 

She huffed but still hugged him tighter. “I'll accept cash, credit, or a pony.”

 

“Let me get back to ya on that. Where's Mom?”

 

“She's cleaning in the back. Come on.” She wiggled down out of his arms and he was quietly relieved as he followed her back through the curtain. If he'd had to hold her much longer he was pretty sure his leg would have given out. She'd gotten heavy.

 

“Mom, look what I found!” Megumi said, leading him by the hand.

 

She turned off the vacuum – a barely audible, energy efficient little thing that probably cost more than it was worth – and turned around. Her eyes widened on her heavily freckled face and for a moment she looked years younger. “Misaki.”

 

“Hey.”

 

“What are you doing here?” The quiver in her lip belied the harsh greeting.

 

“I just thought I'd check on you guys.”

 

She wrapped the cord around the vacuum and pushed it into a closet hidden by a wall tapestry. “We're fine. You know your father takes care of us.”

 

“He's not my-” His eyes went to Megumi, watching the conversation, and balled his fist at his side like he could physically hold on to the words he wanted to say to keep them from slipping out. “I just didn't want the next time I saw you to be when one of them was sick, okay?”

 

She narrowed her eyes before patting Megumi on the head and saying, “Go up and clean your room, you can come back down and see your brother when you're done.”

 

Megumi pouted but she didn't argue, just darted up the stairs to the apartment above the shop. He looked expectantly at his mother when he heard the door shut. He knew she had sent her youngest child away so she wouldn't have to mince words.

 

“You've gotten into some kind of trouble, haven't you?” she asked, not quite concealing the concern in her voice. “What have those boys gotten you into, is it drugs?”

 

“HOMRA hasn't gotten me into anything that I didn't sign up for when I joined. I'll say bye to Meg and get going, I'm sorry I even came.”

 

He turned on his heel and even though he could have shaken them off with about an ounce of his strength, the thin fingers around his wrist brought him to a halt. He looked back and was surprised to find a smile waiting for him. “You're with someone,” she said.

 

“H-how did you know that?”

 

She let go of his wrist and tapped the side of her own neck. He reached up to touch his in the same spot, and... _oh._ He knew his face turned bright red. The damn hickey.

 

“Sit down, I want to hear about them.”

 

“So now you're not mad at me for coming to visit?”

 

She folded herself down by the circular table and patted the velvet cushion next to her. “It's hard to catch up with your son when all he has to talk about is a gang. I worry enough about what you get up to without hearing about it, too. But I want you to tell me about this girlfriend or boyfriend.”

 

“How did you know it might be a boyfriend?” he asked, reluctantly joining her on the floor. He was starting to think she really _was_ psychic.

 

“Misaki, love, I've known you were bisexual since you were a freshman. I got my first crush on a girl when I was twelve. There may not be a lot of things in your life I can relate to anymore, but I understand that much. So talk to me.”

 

He scratched the back of his head. It had been so long since he'd spent any time around her that he'd almost forgotten how annoyingly intuitive she was. “I'm supposed to be making him dinner tonight. He hates vegetables but I'm trying to make him eat better because he kind of gets busy and neglects himself.”

 

“I might still have a couple of recipes from when I still had to sneak Minoru vegetables if you want one.” Her eyes were hopeful, fingers twisting one of the tassles on the corner of the cushion.

 

He smiled at her for the first time in years. “Yeah. That'd be good.”

 

 

 

He would have been mad that his spot-on rendition of Without Me was interrupted by his phone going off and automatically pausing Spotify, but he had been waiting for it to ring all day. He saw _Sunshine_ on the caller ID and put his spatula on the ceramic spoonrest.

 

“Hey,” he said.

 

“My exam is over. I'm going by the apartment to drop off the medical journals I borrowed from Reisi.”

 

He put the phone between his ear and shoulder to start taking the ingredients out of the fridge that he wasn't already slow cooking. “Did you pass?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“Well good job anyway, you cocky little shit.”

 

Fushimi clicked his tongue. “I'll text you when I'm on the way.”

 

At this point Yata was expecting it when the line went dead. He sat his phone on the counter as the music started again. It would probably be about four by the time Fushimi got there, so he left the braised beef to continue simmering and started prepping the side dish. He stared at the produce on his cutting board. He couldn't believe he was making mashed potatoes with cauliflower. Minoru had been like a bloodhound that could sniff out veggies when he was a kid, though, so if he hadn't caught on then maybe Fushimi wouldn't either.

 

He started chopping up the cauliflower like his mom had told him to. He had stopped by the bar yesterday after leaving Crystal and a glass company had been there taking measurements of the window, so it wouldn't be long before the place was back up and running. He thought he was going to get tied up there helping to fix the interior damage but Izumo said he wasn't going to bother with the inside until he had a window in place of the plywood he had tacked up right now. Yata might have agreed a little too quick. He was all too happy to get the bar ready to open again but if he had a choice, he would rather it not interfere with his dinner plans.

 

“No wonder Minoru didn't notice,” he muttered, staring at the combination of cauliflower and potatoes in the pot and unable to tell which one was which.

 

Right on time, his phone lit up and the banner notification read _**{New Message}**_ **Sunshine: Leaving**

 

He took the lid off the beef and inhaled. Yep. That smelled awesome. There was a high enough sugar content in the sauce that it would be cooked down to a nice glaze by the time the mashed potatoes were ready.

 

And if he happened to straighten up the apartment while he was waiting, well, no one could blame him for being a good host.

 

He was also glad that he didn't start any more music after his short cooking playlist ended or he wouldn't have heard the light tap on the door. _You can't even_ knock _like a normal person?_ he thought, exasperated. He flipped the deadbolt, twisted the lock on the back of the doorknob and pulled it open. There was an instant, as he realized he didn't look through the peephole or call out to verify who it was, that he could be letting anyone in his apartment. Freaking Yukari could have been on the other side of the door and he wouldn't have known it until he got his throat slit with a manicured fingernail, filed to razor sharpness.

 

Luckily it was Fushimi waiting there in solid navy scrubs with his hair tied up behind his head, taking in Yata's relief with a raised eyebrow.

 

“Decided to dress the part for your test?” Yata joked.

 

Fushimi looked down at his scrubs as he entered the apartment. “It was a practical exam. Our teacher wanted us to 'take it seriously' and made us scrub in to operate on a dummy.”

 

“Get comfy, I'll bring dinner.”

 

He might have watched Fushimi from the corner of his eye in the kitchen as he situated all his long limbs on the couch, privately enjoying the awkward way he tried to adjust to being in an unfamiliar place. He prepared two plates and balanced one on his forearm so he could carry drinks. Usually he helped cook at the bar but he had served the food a few times and he wasn't a half bad waiter, if he did say so.

 

“Braised beef and rosemary mashed potatoes,” he said.

 

Fushimi sat up, folding his socked feet under his thighs and Yata's heart did a Thing at the sight of his shoes on the rug. He didn't know why it pleased him to see Fushimi making himself at home. Whatever the reason, it had a smile on his face as he plunked their drinks down on a couple squares of corkboard that made up his coasters. Fushimi peered down at the dark liquid in the mug.

 

“You didn't strike me as the type to drink coffee with dinner.”

 

Yata took a sip of his water. “I'm not. I made it for you.”

 

“Oh.” Then, quietly, “Thanks.”

 

For awhile the only noise after that was forks scraping plates and the ice shifting in Yata's glass as it melted. His apartment wasn't nearly as well air conditioned as Fushimi's. He stole a sidelong glance at the other end of the couch. Fushimi had actually finished more of his plate than Yata and was still eating.

 

Fushimi looked pleasantly out of place on his ratty couch, holding one of the only two matching plates Yata owned. He had wondered if Fushimi would look down on this, since Fushimi had probably never seen a food stamp card or the inside of a thrift store in his life, but his surroundings never seemed to affect his demeanor and Yata's apartment was no exception. His indifference was a relief for once.

 

“Reisi told me there was a shooting at the bar,” Fushimi said.

 

Yata swallowed his last bite of beef and sat his empty plate on top of Fushimi's on the coffee table. “Yeah, those cockroaches are finally coming out of the woodwork.”

 

“I thought they were sewer rats.”

 

“Whatever, my point stands. We still don't know why they went into hiding after stirring up shit with us but we've started to draw them out.”

 

Fushimi picked up his coffee. “Is it worth it?”

 

“Yeah of course, why wouldn't it be?”

 

“Maybe they realized they were outmatched and went into hiding in hopes that it would blow over.” Fushimi took a long drink and only lowered it as far as his lap, hands wrapped around the old striped mug. “If they're leaving you alone maybe you should let them.”

 

Yata let his head hang over the back of the couch. “They hit Dewa with a car, I wouldn't call that leaving us alone.”

 

“He was hanging around in their territory. I'm just saying, if you let them be this war might be over.”

 

“We can't do that. They attacked us, if we didn't destroy them then every gang in Queens would think they could pick a fight with HOMRA.”

 

“Sounds like a bunch of stupid politics.”

 

Yata turned so that his back was against the armrest and he could stretch a leg out to prod at Fushimi's knee. “You know what they say, politics and religions aren't good subjects for a date.” He kept his tone light, as he wasn't really bothered by the conversation but he never knew how far Fushimi would take something.

 

“I don't have a religion to speak of,” Fushimi said, sitting his mug back on the coaster and looking down the length of the couch at Yata. He untucked his feet and readjusted so his knees fell on either side of Yata's calves. “No one has called down a bolt of lightning to smite me for my sins and until they do, I won't answer to this world's masters and gods.”

 

As he spoke he leaned forward and dropped his hand on the cushion next to Yata's waist, who was rapidly forgetting their earlier conversation, held captive by Fushimi's lidded gaze. “Tell me, Misaki, what are your sins?”

 

“That's a long list,” Yata said, voice cracking as Fushimi draped his body over his.

 

“Then another one won't hurt.”

 

He groaned softly at the harsh pressure of Fushimi's mouth. There was more passion than aggression there and he returned it with fervor, parting his legs to let Fushimi lay between them. The width of the couch forced him to drop one foot on the floor but he wrapped the other around Fushimi to make up for the lost contact. The new position let them press as flush together as they possibly could and he could already feel his body responding. He wrapped his arms around Fushimi's neck, his mouth open to the kiss before Fushimi's tongue even sought entrance, taking all of the sin that Fushimi could impart on him while his blood sang for more, _more._

 

“Saru,” he said as that soft mouth fell to his jaw, for no particular reason other than enjoying the way his name felt on his lips.

 

Fushimi nipped at the bruise on the side of his throat before laving his tongue over the marked flesh. “Misaki,” he breathed, cooling the saliva on Yata's neck and raising goosebumps in his wake.

 

His chest and groin seemed to be tightening as one. It was an overwhelming feeling and he found himself tugging at Fushimi's ponytail, coaxing him up to look at him. _I have to know if I'm alone in this._ “Saruhiko.”

 

“Do you want to stop?” he asked. At the very least, Yata wasn't alone in being breathless and disheveled.

 

“I just...I wanna know.” He picked nervously at the collar of Fushimi's scrub shirt. “I want to know what this means to you.”

 

Fushimi didn't seem frustrated by the sudden stop to their activities for conversation, like Yata had feared, but his face was blank. “I don't understand what you're asking.”

 

“I'm really starting to like you!” Yata blurted out. He swallowed back his nerves. “A lot.”

 

Fushimi brought the hand that wasn't supporting his weight to the side of Yata's face, sending his heart soaring, only for it to crash back down when he heard, “Misaki. I don't feel anything for you.”

 

Yata blinked.

 

What?

 

It felt like someone had dropped a cinderblock on his chest, and he propped himself on his elbows, forcing Fushimi to sit up and away from him. “B-but why have you been...”

 

“I told you from the beginning that you fascinated me. I didn't realize I had given you the impression it was more than that.” Seeing the tension that had overtaken Yata's body, he stood up, so unaffected that Yata didn't know if he wanted to cry or scream.

 

He didn't want to believe it. The dates, the hotel, the way Fushimi touched him, it didn't feel like _fascination_ goddammit. He gave Fushimi time to put his shoes on and take a few steps away before he stood up as well; he couldn't stand to be close to him right now.

 

“So you're just going to hit me with that and leave?” he demanded, anger surging through him both at Fushimi and at his own stupidity.

 

Fushimi stopped, almost at the door. His voice carried easily in the small space. “You obviously want something I can't give you.”

 

His fist shook against his leg. His throat and his eyes burned but he wouldn't let it out, wouldn't dare give Fushimi the satisfaction. “You manipulative fucking-”

 

“I've always been fascinated by the way you feel. Not the way you feel about me – I didn't know you had feelings for me until now – but the way you feel so...much.” Fushimi didn't turn around but he didn't take the last steps to the door, either. “Your emotions are so vibrant that being close to you almost made it seem like they were mine. I don't remember what feeling is like. I don't know if I ever did. It never occurred to me that you might develop more than a physical attraction to me or why the hell you would.

 

“If I had considered the possibility, I would have told you that I couldn't return your feelings. It's not that I don't want to care, Misaki.” He finally opened the door, and he stopped in the doorway to say so low that Yata almost didn't hear, “I just don't know how.”

 

The door closing was as loud in Yata's ears as the gunshot that had torn through his leg. It might have hurt even worse. His mind raced, trying to work out everything he just heard. His feet were rooted to the spot. He reached for his anger at being played but couldn't find it. _Because I wasn't, not really._ He stared at the door with a very different feeling spreading through his chest.

 

_I didn't realize just how messed up you are._

 

What weighed on him now was much more akin to determination than anger.

 

_You're really fucked in the head, aren't you?_

 

He didn't realize his legs had started to move again until he wrenched the door open.

 

_Guess it sucks to be me, because I'm nuts about you; crazy or not._

 

Either Fushimi was as reluctant to leave as Yata was to let him go, or he had not stood there in shock for as long as he thought, because Fushimi had only taken a couple of steps when Yata yanked the door open. He looked back, eyes wide behind his glasses. He obviously hadn't expected Yata to follow or him probably even speak to him again. Yata wondered how many people had let him walk away because of what ever had his emotions all out of whack.

 

_They're in there. You don't know what they look like because you don't even think you have them, but I've seen them._

 

“Saruhiko,” he said.

 

“Idiot. You really came after me.”

 

Yata stood his ground in the doorway, daring Fushimi to turn away from him again. His heart had climbed into his throat. As much as it had given him emotional whiplash, seeing so far past Fushimi's walls to the shambles of a human being behind them just made Yata want him more. “You may not realize it but you do have feelings, Saru. You're not whatever soulless monster you think you are. If you don't have them for me or don't think you can, then fine, but let me be the one to decide if I can deal with that.”

 

Fushimi faced him fully and took a step toward him. “I'm a lot to deal with.”

 

“Okay,” Yata said, stepping back inside.

 

“Misaki,” Fushimi said as he came to stand in the doorway, a warning, making sure he knew what he was offering.

 

“Saruhiko,” Yata said, the name having crossed his lips so many times that it was starting to feel like _his_ religion. “Get in here.”

 

Fushimi backed him the rest of the way into the apartment and kicked the door closed behind him. There were no more questions, just lips and tongues meeting halfway. He bit down on Fushimi's lip hard enough to taste blood. If pain was the only feeling he understood then Yata was going to make him feel. He sucked lightly at the wound until Fushimi was gasping into his mouth; sweet, high pitched sounds that could have brought Yata to his knees. He was already pulling Fushimi's head down but he still couldn't return the kiss with as much intensity as he wanted.

 

He pushed onto his toes, realizing one hiss of pain too late that it would strain his legs to take his weight and his right one protested in force. Fushimi seemed to notice what he was trying to do. His hands slid from Yata's waist to the back of his thighs and the floor disappeared. Yata's eyes flew open in shock as Fushimi lifted him right off the ground and spun him to press him into the wall, hefting Yata's legs around his waist. _Shit._ No one had ever done that to him and it was _hot._

 

He grabbed Fushimi's ponytail holder and yanked it out. It went somewhere in the direction of the kitchen, maybe, he didn't know or care. He wound his fingers deep into Fushimi's hair and let his nails, blunt and ragged though they were, drag across his scalp. Fushimi made a wonderfully broken sound into the kiss that made Yata _crave,_ that made him want to keep indulging those perverse needs until Fushimi was open wide and as desperate for this as Yata already was.

 

Fushimi supporting his weight left his arms free so he grabbed the hem of his scrubs and pulled his shirt as far up as he could until their joined mouths halted his progress. He gave it an insistent tug that made Fushimi break away with an irritated sigh. He complied, though, pressing into Yata with his lower body to keep him against the wall as he raised his arms for Yata to finish pulling it over his head. It hadn't even hit the floor before he attached his mouth to Yata's neck, sucking in retaliation for being interrupted.

 

Yata didn't complain, just as eager to start taking in the bare skin he had access to now. He clutched Fushimi's shoulders, feeling muscle coil under his hands as Fushimi grabbed ahold of his thighs again. Fushimi nipped at his throat and he raked his nails down the taller man's bare shoulder blades.

 

“Misaki,” Fushimi gasped, arching into him.

 

“Bed,” Yata said before he could ask.

 

He thought Fushimi would let him down but he just started carrying him toward the stairs. Admittedly, Yata didn't make it any easier for him by taking Fushimi's earrings between his teeth and gently tugging them as he walked. The cold metal on his tongue was somehow erotic under the circumstances. He hooked his ankles around Fushimi's slender waist and held on tight as he was carried upstairs. He hadn't expected Fushimi to be so strong, and it was kind of turning him on a little (a lot).

 

Gravity inverted itself as Fushimi dropped him on his bed. His heart slammed against the inside of his chest. This was happening, and he wanted it badly, like someone was stealing the air out of his lungs every second that they weren't touching.

 

_Give me your broken,_ he thought as he let Fushimi divest him of his shirt, and raised his hips for him to do the same with his cargo shorts.

 

Fushimi met his eyes with his fingers hooked into his boxers, hair everywhere and glasses askew, looking like he was going to do no less than devour him alive. He flushed under that stare. _Give me your worst._

 

“Yours too,” he requested softly.

 

He watched Fushimi get up and stand at the end of the bed. None of the lights on the upper level were on but he was backlit by the glow from downstairs, letting Yata see him drop the rest of his clothes without ceremony or apology. His mouth dried when there was no longer anything to obstruct the sight of porcelain skin stretched over a taut body and long legs, god his legs went on _forever._ He didn't know if he was so aroused that he was descending into delirium or if Fushimi was just that damn attractive.

 

Fushimi laid back across him and nothing could have prepared him for how it would feel for the length of their bare bodies to press together. “ _Oh,”_ Yata said with a shudder as Fushimi's cock slid over his. He couldn't help but buck up against that slick friction. He pulled Fushimi's hair, wanting him to feel the same pleasure.

 

What he didn't expect was for Fushimi to grab his wrists and slam them into the mattress above his head. It didn't hurt. However, it did send a surprising wave of heat down his body. He pulled, testing the hold. He could break it if he wanted to but he didn't. With his long fingers Fushimi needed only one hand to hold his wrists, and the other went to the side of Yata's face.

 

“If you don't stop that, I am going to take you raw and fuck you until you're back on crutches,” Fushimi said, hovering right above him.

 

Yata could move his finger enough to point at the nightstand. If he had to hear Fushimi say something like that again, this was going to be over quick. “There's...stuff in there.”

 

Fushimi didn't let go of his wrists, just leaned sideways to open the drawer and take out the small bottle that Yata knew was beside a couple extra boxes of ammunition. He squirmed, watching Fushimi uncap it and flip it over, all without letting him go. The bottle dropped to the bed beside them. Even in the low light Yata could see two of his fingers glisten in a way they hadn't done before.

 

He threw his head back when a cool finger brushed just behind his balls. “Saru, _please_.” He raised his knees on either side of Fushimi's waist to give him access.

 

Fushimi closed his eyes for a moment like the words were a physical touch before Yata felt him rub over his entrance. He shivered, recalling his request for Fushimi to leave his gloves on at the hotel and realizing this was the first time Fushimi had touched him intimately with no barriers between them. There was pressure between his legs and fuck, Fushimi's finger was sliding into him, and he could feel himself opening up to it.

 

He was helpless to reciprocate as Fushimi sucked the tender skin beneath his ear while he slowly worked him open. He could only curl his fingers around the hand that restrained him and whisper, “More.”

 

Fushimi gave a low purr against his neck and began to worry the skin between his teeth. Yata trembled, pinned down with Fushimi's mouth over his racing pulse, feeling completely powerless to the man above him. _But_ _I've always been powerless to you, haven't I? No matter how many reasons I gave myself not to get involved with you, I always got pulled back._

 

He couldn't hold back his moan as a second finger breached him. It stung but he could feel himself stretching around them and it was so good. His knees were shaking around Fushimi's waist by the time they were fully sheathed in his body, Fushimi's knuckles flush against his entrance. It felt infinitely better than the few times he had explored himself there. Even alone, he had been embarrassed to touch himself that way but now he couldn't help but press down against Fushimi's hand, his dignity long sacrificed to pursue more of the pleasure coursing through him.

 

Fushimi hummed against his neck and drew them almost all the way out before pressing them back in. He repeated that until he was steadily pumping them in and out, Yata rocking his hips against his fingers. “Do you like that?” he murmured, his breath tickling Yata's ear.

 

The sound of his voice added to the mix was too much. Yata's cock throbbed, pulsing precome onto his stomach. He twitched at the feeling of Fushimi's fingers curling inside him, wondering if he was trying to stretch him further as they pressed up and- “Oh God, Saru, _there_!”

 

“Fuck, you just love to be fingered, don't you Misaki?”

 

“Please stop t-talking,” Yata said, heat building in his core.

 

“Or what?” Fushimi breathed, rubbing that spot again. “Am I going to make you come? I can feel you getting tighter.”

 

Yata couldn't keep his legs still and he shook his head almost frantically. “I don't want to yet. _Ah,_ I'm not ready for this to be over.”

 

He shuddered as Fushimi withdrew his fingers and his body came back down from the rush of endorphins that hadn't quite peaked. Fushimi went to the end of the bed and leaned down, and Yata heard fabric rustling. He took deep breaths to calm himself. His cock was uncomfortably hard from being denied orgasm, his wrists stiff from being held down. Fushimi was back and kneeling between his legs, a small, silver square catching Yata's eye that he guessed was what Fushimi had been looking for in his discarded pants.

 

“You brought a condom with you?” he asked, partly upset that Fushimi assumed he would need one and partly upset with himself that Fushimi had been right.

 

Fushimi looked amused by his anger, an unfairly attractive expression when it was the only thing he was wearing. “I keep one in my wallet.”

 

“Oh.” He watched Fushimi take the corner of the packet between his teeth and said, “I was thinking maybe we could just, you know, not use one. If you want. I mean, you're clean and it's my first time so you know I am, too.”

 

He thought he would get either an agreement or some lecture on the medical risks of sex without protection, but he wasn't expecting Fushimi to blink several times and freeze with that silver pack between his teeth (which was really sexy and not helping Yata's aching lower body _at all_ ).

 

Fushimi finally took the condom and dropped it on the bed next to the lube. “You're a virgin?”

 

“Of course I'm a virgin! I told you in the hotel that I'd never...done that thing I did to you before.”

 

“I thought you had always been on the receiving end and just never given someone else head.”

 

Yata's mouth fell open. “Now that would just be rude.”

 

“Virgin,” Fushimi repeated, as if he had learned the word for the first time.

 

It was everything Yata could do not to pull one of his pillows down over his face. It had never occurred to him that Fushimi might have not realized. As awkward as Yata was about sex, he thought it was pretty freakin' obvious!

 

“Do you not want to?” he asked, despite the evidence between Fushimi's legs that he very much wanted to.

 

Fushimi ran his hands up Yata's thighs, almost in curiosity. “I've never been with a virgin.”

 

“Then I guess it'll be a first for both of us.”

 

Uncertainty drew Fushimi's brows together for a moment before he said, “It will be messy later if I don't use a condom.” He gave Yata's cock a slow stroke.

 

Yata raised his hips into the touch. “It's fine.”

 

Fushimi uncapped the lube again and liberally covered his fingers. He pushed two of them back inside Yata, followed closely by a third. Yata clenched his teeth and kept taking deep breaths. The burn subsided a little when Fushimi started moving them. He took them away, though, as soon as it really started to feel good. Yata knew the reason and it sent a chill down his back at the sound of that plastic cap opening one more time.

 

He was glad that Fushimi's free hand wasn't touching him because the sight of Fushimi preparing himself with lube, working over his own cock, probably would have done him in.

 

Fushimi spread his legs open further and his heart beat in his throat as the slick head of Fushimi's cock pressed against his entrance. “This is going to hurt,” Fushimi said.

 

“I'm ready. Just go kinda slow.”

 

Then he was opening to something bigger than fingers and holy _shit_ Fushimi wasn't kidding. He held on to the sheets for dear life, glad when Fushimi laid across him and he had something a little more solid to hold onto. Fushimi braced himself on one hand and held Yata's thigh with the other to keep his legs open wide. Yata locked his arms around Fushimi's ribs to cling to his back. He could feel the way his body tensed the deeper he went, an almost mirror reaction to Yata's own muscles as he tried to relax around the intrusion.

 

“Fucking _stricta_ ,” Fushimi gasped.

 

Yata was trembling even with just the head of Fushimi's cock inside him, but he guessed it was just as intense for Fushimi if he was talking in another language. Some of the pain was ebbing and he felt the first twinges of pleasure as Fushimi slid deeper. With the burn starting to fade, he liked the way he could feel himself stretching around Fushimi, the fullness that couldn't be attained just from fingering. Fushimi's head bowed forward when he was finally in him as far as he could go, his hair hanging down just above Yata's face.

 

“It's okay, I'm okay,” Yata babbled, pulling his leg away from Fushimi's grasp to wrap them around his waist.

 

Fushimi slid out maybe halfway before thrusting back in. He swallowed Yata's moan with a kiss that was more just teeth and tongues sliding together. He kept going until Yata was rocking down to meet him and only then did he pull almost completely out, drawing a whine from Yata at the emptiness, and sheathe himself again with a snap of his hips. Yata cried out a wordless sound and clung harder to him. He didn't realize he had dug his nails in until he felt skin dragging beneath his fingertips and Fushimi moaned an unintelligible string of curses.

 

A particularly hard thrust made his back arch and his cock slide against Fushimi's stomach. His toes curled against the bed as his body skirted dangerously close to orgasm. He pressed up, seeking that friction again but he couldn't get the same angle. They had barely started but he felt like he was going to burn alive from the inside if he didn't come.

 

“Saru,” he warned breathlessly.

 

Fushimi slid his arms under his back. “I know.”

 

He let out an embarrassing, high pitched sound as Fushimi sat back on his knees and pulled Yata with him, keeping Yata's legs around his waist so he had no choice but to let Fushimi support his weight. This actually put him a little higher than Fushimi and he took advantage of that to take hold of his glasses that kept trying to slip off his face.

 

“No,” Fushimi said, catching his wrist. “Leave them. I want to be able to see, I want to watch you.”

 

His immediate protest was lost as Fushimi thrust up into him and hit that sweet spot. His head fell back and his hand slid from Fushimi's face. He tried to pivot his hips down to meet his thrusts but their position put them too close to the end of the bed for him to unwrap his legs and plant his feet on the bed to get any leverage. He could only hold on.

 

Fushimi leaned the slightest bit forward. “Is this what you wanted?”

 

“Oh _shit,”_ Yata moaned as his cock began sliding against Fushimi's abdomen. He didn't bother trying to hold back, the pressure at the center of his body was too much. He tightened his legs around Fushimi to hold them together as close as he could. Every one of Fushimi's thrusts rubbed Yata's cock against him.

 

His hand had fallen to Fushimi's shoulder earlier and he looked down as Fushimi pulled that hand to rest on his neck. His eyes widened when Fushimi moved it so that his fingers could wrap around it. “Misaki.”

 

“S'dangerous,” he said, realizing what Fushimi wanted.

 

Fushimi covered his hand with his own, putting pressure around his neck. “Do it.”

 

Against his better judgment but too close to the edge to find any more words, he left his hand in place when Fushimi removed his. It didn't take any conscious effort to apply pressure, he just held on to Fushimi's throat as his orgasm built rapidly and he couldn't _help_ but cling to it. Fushimi pulled Yata higher up and the changed angle had every thrust nailing his prostate. His muscles clenched and spasmed and his moans were nearly screams.

 

His habit of talking too much apparently never went away, as he found himself gasping, “Don't stop, don't stop!” He thought he felt blood welling under the nails he dug into Fushimi's back, and he pulled that hand away to join his other one around Fushimi's neck. “Ah, _Saru_ _,_ I'm gonna come, gonna-” And his words dissolved from the realm of coherent speech as he released between them.

 

There was a strangled sound and he felt a pulse inside him as Fushimi came. He was still in the throes of his own climax, fingers clenching and choking Fushimi through his orgasm. He felt like they grasped each other forever at their shared peak of ecstasy. The full body shakes did give way to fine tremors, the last waves of orgasm seemed to also leave with the last bit of functionality from his muscles. His legs uncoiled from Fushimi's waist, his hands dropped from his neck. He expected to fall backward, but Fushimi's arm still supported him, and he was eased back instead of plummeting there. He winced at the wet sound as Fushimi pulled out.

 

Only then did he pay attention to the nearly inaudible gasps. Fushimi collapsed next to him, drawing hurried, ragged breaths. Yata reached out but Fushimi waved him off with an unsteady hand. “I'm fine.”

 

“I hurt you,” Yata said, swatting Fushimi's hand out of the way to touch the red lines on his neck where his fingers had been.

 

“I wanted you to.”

 

Fushimi maneuvered around him to grab one of the shirts in the floor – Yata was pretty sure if it was the one he wore yesterday, maybe (he needed to do laundry okay?) – and set to cleaning them off. He tossed it aside and stretched back out next to Yata when he was done. “What about you, former virgin?”

 

“I'm fine,” Yata said with a laugh. “I'm definitely sore but it's okay. It was...awesome.” Tentatively, he added, “Are you gonna stay?”

 

“No. I don't like sharing a bed, not in the most literal regard. And I don't cuddle. I'm not leaving yet, though.”

 

Yata would take that. He rolled over to face Fushimi, and maybe he didn't cuddle but he ran his hands over Yata's sore body, and let Yata trail apologetic fingers over his neck. He didn't comment when Fushimi's hand stopped on his thigh, over the healing gunshot wound there. He wanted to ask what Fushimi was thinking but he didn't think he would answer him. That was okay. He didn't have to give him an answer.

  
_Just give me tonight._

 


	14. Gunshy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No proofreading.
> 
> Almost no plot.
> 
> All of the dialogue.
> 
> I am sorry but I've been sick and this is what I managed lol. Thank you for reading and continuing to support me, I love you guys all to bits you just have no idea <3

He didn't know how long they stayed tangled up in his unmade bed, surrounded by the smell of sex and coffee that Fushimi had gone downstairs to make and then forgotten about when he put it on the nightstand to cool. Yata was laying on his side, as being on his back was a little uncomfortable.

 

“Hey, Saruhiko.”

 

On his side with his arm folded under his head, Fushimi raised an eyebrow. “Hey.”

 

“No really, I have a question. If you don't wanna talk about it that's cool but I was just wondering.” Their growing connection was opening up a well of curiosity about Fushimi that he was desperate to fill with more knowledge about this man he was so taken with.

 

“Okay.”

 

He looked into blue eyes that were more gray in the low light of his room. “You said you were only becoming a doctor because it's what your dad wants. What would you do if you got to pick?”

 

“I might join a criminal organization and illegally distribute firearms. It seems like fun, you get to go to war and everything.”

 

Yata smacked his chest and got a snicker for his trouble. “Jerk, I'm serious.” He didn't get it pushed away so he let his hand linger there, Fushimi's heartbeat warm and steady under his palm.

 

“I was going to be a computer programmer.”

 

“So it was gonna be one fancy profession or another, huh?”

 

Fushimi continued without acknowledging his quip. “I started writing software when I was in middle school. By the time I was in highschool, I had built my own computer.”

 

Yata grinned at the pride creeping into Fushimi's words. “That's awesome. I'm not totally computer illiterate but I can't do anything special. Do you still have the one you built?”

 

“No. It was destroyed.” Fushimi shrugged before Yata's wide eyes and open mouth could turn into a question. “It's fine. The one I built for my apartment is better, anyway.”

 

“Wow.”

 

Fushimi blinked as though the reverence in his voice had pulled him out of whatever unpleasant memory that talking about high school had called up. “What?”

 

“I thought maybe you were just some medical prodigy but you really are a genius.”

 

“I guess. I've always found 'genius' to be something people apply to themselves when having superior intelligence isn't enough and they need a word that sets them above others.”

 

Yata didn't have much of an answer to that and his brain was too fried to think of one. He settled for just laying there, feeling Fushimi's chest expand under his hand when he breathed. They rested in silence for awhile until Fushimi reached over him to take something off the nightstand. He expected it to be his coffee and was about to ask how the hell Fushimi could stand to drink it cold, but Fushimi held a small phial between them.

 

“What's this?” he asked, turning it so the piece of metal clinked against the glass.

 

“I'd almost forgotten that was there. Doc gave it to me, it's the bullet you guys took out. He said I should keep it because surviving was something to be proud of.”

 

“Tch. Sounds like him. He would wax poetry about the evening news if there was anyone around to listen.”

 

Yata curled his fingers around Fushimi's, their joined hands obscuring the phial but he was very much aware of its presence. “Y'know, we wouldn't be here now if it wasn't for this thing.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“We might have never met if I hadn't been brought into Mount Sinai.” It was the first time he had looked back on the night of the shooting without feeling an instinctive surge of panic and anxiety. He added that to the list of reasons he was glad he had taken a chance on this thing he had with Fushimi.

 

“Your brother still would have contracted typhoid fever. We would have met the night you brought him in.”

 

Yata rubbed his thumb over the back of Fushimi's hand. “Heh. I guess we were gonna end up here one way or another.”

 

“Don't get sentimental. You're just experiencing an endorphin high from oxytocin an dopamine.”

 

_Normal people call those feelings,_ he thought but didn't dare say. No matter how much the other man teased him for things out of his control, he didn't want Fushimi to think he was making fun of his issues. He felt like Fushimi was guarded by an infinitely tall gate of reinforced steel, that Yata had managed to get one toe in before it slammed shut. He could only see through the tiniest of cracks but he would be damned if he wasn't going to keep pushing further until that gate opened for him. 

 

Instead, he thought aloud, “We would have been good friends in middle school. I always looked up to the smart kids. I didn't make bad grades, but I always thought honors classes sounded really cool.”

 

“You never would have met me when I was in middle school,” Fushimi said, propping himself on one elbow to look down at him.

 

“Why not?”

 

“I attended elementary and middle school in Los Angeles. We didn't move here until I was about to start high school.”

 

Yata pictured a dotted line appearing from California to New York and his mouth fell open. “Holy shit, why did you move across the country?”

 

“I don't know. As soon as I finished middle school, my father said he was moving to the business to New York. We were packed and gone within a week.”

 

“Weird. Well, at least that explains your high and mighty attitude. Damn West Coaster.”

 

Fushimi scoffed. “I think it's New Yorkers that have the reputation for being unfriendly.”

 

“Oh, whatever.”

 

He closed his eyes at the touch of lips against his. He didn't really mind being told to shut up if this was how Fushimi was going to do it. He slid his hands into Fushimi's hair, languidly stroking through it as Fushimi tugged his bottom lip between his teeth. It tickled more than it hurt. He slipped his tongue between Fushimi's open lips in response, glided it along the roof of his mouth and felt him shiver. The unhurried exchange of touches was as good if not better than the passionate frenzy earlier in the night. Maybe each time was better than the last because he was getting to know more and more about this man who had him so thoroughly wrapped around his latex-gloved finger.

 

“Misaki,” Fushimi said, pulling away with a smirk.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You're getting excited.”

 

His words took a minute to process, and as soon as they did Yata paid attention to the warmth in his lower body and his growing arousal. He tipped his head forward and groaned against Fushimi's shoulder. Seriously, he lost his virginity and instead of his body being satisfied for awhile, reacted that way just to kissing? He wondered if Fushimi could feel the heat radiating from his face.

 

“It'll go away,” he mumbled. He started at the sudden stimulation as Fushimi reached down and ran the back of his hand up his cock, his knuckles catching just slightly under the head. “I don't think I'm up for round two,” he said, even as his blood rushed south to contradict him.

 

“Just lay back.”

 

Laying on his back wasn't especially comfortable but he couldn't resist Fushimi's curled lip and lidded gaze. He laid gingerly on the bed, eyes widening when Fushimi gracefully slid himself down to-

 

“H-hey,” he said as Fushimi slid his hands under his thighs, his face right above Yata's cock.

 

Fushimi lifted his legs onto his shoulders, raising his hips from the bed and letting his feet cross loosely on Fushimi's back. “Better?”

 

“Yeah, actually. But you don't have to- _oh.”_

 

His eyes fluttered shut when Fushimi's tongue traveled up his length to lap lightly at the tip. It was just enough pressure to feel good without putting him in discomfort from the sensitivity of having come so recently. He gasped as Fushimi sucked the head of his now fully erect member. His lips applied gentle suction, his hand working the rest of him. The slow strokes had him melting into the bed.

 

“Saruhiko,” he breathed, pushing his bangs back to watch him.

 

Fushimi acknowledged him with a glance over the top of his glasses, the eye contact becoming impossibly lewd when it was accompanied by the sight of him with his lips stretched around Yata's cock. His eyelashes became two inky crests against his face as he closed his eyes and continued the steady tandem of his mouth and hand.

 

His elbow was going numb from being propped on it to look down at Fushimi and his shoulders were digging into Yata's thighs but he felt like he was suspended in a single moment, and if he looked away he would plummet back to reality. The small pains dulled in comparison to the warmth filling his body. Fushimi's constant, unwavering rhythm was carrying him higher, _deeper._

 

Fushimi looked up at him again and then he was flying. His legs spasmed against Fushimi's back as he came, not so much crashing into his release as falling into its embrace, enveloped in warm pleasure. He felt boneless by the time it subsided and he found Fushimi next to him.

 

“That didn't take long,” Fushimi said, and dragged his tongue slowly across his lip like he was savoring the taste.

 

Yata's mind was too fuzzy to rise to his teasing. He ran a clumsy, unsteady hand down the side of Fushimi's face. “Felt good.”

 

Fushimi looked unimpressed by the compliment but Yata could see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. He wished he could show that to Fushimi and make him understand what it meant. To Fushimi, it was just the movement of some muscle (that he probably knew the name of) but Yata saw his face trying to betray the smallest inkling of happiness. He smoothed Fushimi's bangs down where he had held them against the top of his head. The inky strands fell back into place with less coaxing than usual, and he was almost disappointed he no longer had an excuse to touch them.

 

“I'm going back to my apartment,” Fushimi said, blinking heavy looking eyelids.

 

Yata thought about reiterating his offer for Fushimi to stay the night, decided not to test his luck and heaved his body into a sitting position. “I'll walk you downstairs.”

 

“No need,” Fushimi said, climbing off the end of the bed to retrieve his pants and underwear from the floor.

 

“Just slow down, I'm goin' with you. JUNGLE was ballsy enough to go after the bar, there's no telling if they might be hanging around here.”

 

“It's not me they're going to be looking for.” Despite his arguments, Fushimi stood waiting while Yata stumbled into his clothes.

 

Yata finally got his shorts zipped and followed (limped) after Fushimi down the stairs. “Yeah but if they've been tailing or having somebody watch the gang then they might know we're together. Those bastards would rough you up just to get to us.” He stuck his feet into shoes while Fushimi looked for his shirt. After a couple minutes of searching he plucked it off the back of the couch.

 

“Joke's on them, I might like it.”

 

Yata sighed and grabbed his gun off the small counter that separated the kitchen and living room. No matter how little time he would be gone, he armed the security system before they walked out of the apartment. The thought of the bar was making him paranoid.

 

He was glad when they reached the Audi without hindrance. He still had that feeling of being watched making the fine hair on his arms stand on end, but he didn't think there was any avoiding that until JUNGLE was subdued.

 

He put a hand on the door before Fushimi could open it. “You see anybody suspicious, or someone bothers you, just call me.”

 

“Are you going to come kill them?” Fushimi asked, bringing his hand to the side of Yata's face.

 

Yata turned his head to press his lips against his palm. He held Fushimi's wrist, hoping he knew just how serious he was. “If I have to.”

 

Even after the warm touch was gone, and the Audi made it safely out of sight, there was still unease prickling under his skin. _Are you there?_ he wondered, staring up at his building.Whether they were physical or belonging to a camera somewhere, or maybe in his own mind where irrational fear lived, he could feel JUNGLE's eyes on him. Watching. Waiting.

 

 

 

His alarm trilled him into consciousness at nine o'clock. He groaned and slapped the screen until he hit either Snooze or Dismiss. He didn't care as long as it shut up. Mornings usually didn't bother him and it wasn't even that early but he had underestimated how sore his backside would be. He often slept on his back so he was sure he had tossed and turned most of the night when he would lay like that and a flare of pain would send him back onto his side.

 

He let his head flop to the side and breathed in. Coffee and shampoo. Sunshine.

 

Something clinked when he stretched. He dug around until he found the source tangled in the sheets and was a little surprised he hadn't ended up laying on the glass phial at any point. Or he did and it didn't break because it was made out of fancy medical glass. He chucked it into the nightstand drawer.

 

It wasn't quite nine-thirty when he was dressed and leaving for the bar. He took his bike in case they needed him to go get anything (though it would have to be small) and knocked the kickstand down behind the Mustang. He was relieved the car had not become a causality in the gang war, or Mikoto probably would have burned down the whole of College Point just to be thorough.

 

He unlocked the door and tread carefully, remembering the glass, wood splinters and sticky pools of spilled alcohol (or blood) that had awaited him when he came to see the damage, but the hardwood was polished and shining. At least, as much of it as he could see with the tables pushed aside and two of HOMRA's senior members sitting in the middle of the floor surrounded by planks of wood.

 

“Give me the one that says B,” Izumo said, standing one of the planks up.

 

Tatara looked through the pieces. “Two of them say B.”

 

“Yeah because there are _two of them._ They're both the same thing, just hand me one.”

 

Tatara threw his hands up at Izumo's impatient tone. “I can't even put my life together, I don't know why you thought I would be any help assembling furniture!”

 

Izumo looked like he was ready to blow a gasket so Yata picked up one of the offending pieces and passed it to him. “What's this for?” he asked.

 

“To go with the A piece!” Izumo yelled, glasses crooked from how fast his head shot up.

 

Yata took a step back. “Um, I actually meant the table, or I think this is going to be a table but that's cool, don't worry about it. I'm just gonna go over here.”

 

“It's safe with us, Misaki.”

 

He looked over at the couch – now oozing stuffing from a hole in the cushion – to find Anna curled primly under Mikoto's arm. He went to join them, trying to avoid the hole in case Tatara was going to try and sew it up. Mikoto didn't even seem to be awake. His head was tilted back, mouth open like he didn't realize there was no smoke to blow out of it for once.

 

The warm leather at Yata's back was making him drowsy, too. He dropped his head against the back of the couch (and not _over_ it because he wasn't a limbering, sentient tree like Mikoto) and closed his eyes. Tatara's melodic voice swirled with Izumo's more city-influenced accent in an offbeat sort of lullaby. His fingers twitched against his leg at the phantom sensation of Fushimi's hair sliding between them. He couldn't escape the thought of him, the almost manic look in his eyes when he brought Yata's hands to his throat. His tired brain began the pointless exercise of trying to make sense of him. _How could you touch me so carefully when you just want me to bruise you?_

 

“Up and at 'em, we're going to see Koji at the docks,” Izumo's voice said from much closer than the floor.

 

Yata rubbed his face. “Alright, let's go.”

 

“Be safe,” Anna called after them.

 

Yata followed him to the Lexus, glad to see the new window in place, blue tape still lining the edges where it was installed. He got situated in the passenger's seat and tried to clear his mind of the night before. At least until he was done with business. Izumo joined him in the car, and Yata's brow furrowed when he immediately moved to turn the volume on the radio to zero.

 

“Headache?” he ventured.

 

Izumo didn't answer him at first. He put a cigarette between his lips and flipped his Zippo open. He cracked the windows and pulled away from the bar. They were almost halfway to the docks before he spoke into the nerve wracking silence. “Yata, what do you think my IQ is?”

 

“Um. High. Like, really high.”

 

“You would be correct.” Izumo took a drag of his cigarette. “Being HOMRA's strategist, I'm actually quite good at deducing facts without being given all the information.”

 

Yata gave him a shaky thumbs up. “That's our Izumo.”

 

“So, since you're already aware of that, what would give you the impression you could hide something from me?”

 

Oh, crap.

 

He knew there was no point in lying, and that his silence confirmed his guilt.

 

“I don't have anything against Fushimi, not like Mikoto does. I just know bullets are flying and heads are rolling and you picked one _hell_ of a time to start dating.”

 

Yata picked at a hole in his tank top. “I didn't really pick it. I didn't even like him, y'know? But it's like I don't have a choice, like something would just bring us back together anyway.”

 

“That's some heavy shit you're talking about.”

 

“I know.” He did know, and it scared the hell out of him. “Are you gonna tell the Boss?”

 

“Not yet. His temper's quick as it is, I'm not going to risk setting it off when I need him level headed to help me plan our counterattack on JUNGLE. And Yata,” Izumo said as they turned onto the rough service road that led to the docks.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Keep me in the loop. You can talk to me about this stuff.”

 

Yata guessed that statement was meant to be taken with an unspoken _Or else_ , since Izumo pointed a menacing finger at him and got out of the car instead of letting him respond. He opened the passenger's side and followed Izumo to one of the private charter docks. Unlike last time, there was another vehicle in the small parking area, a black luxury car with no visible occupant. He looked at Izumo, who shook his head; he didn't know who it belonged to, either.

 

They both kept their hands in positions they could easily draw their guns from as they approached. At the end of the dock stood Koji, and a man in a black military coat with a long ponytail whipping behind him in the breeze. The most noticeable thing about him, however, was the sheath on his hip that was way too long to just hold a knife. The sight of it sparked a memory from the back of Yata's mind, of a sharp point to his throat and a cherry blossom tree in the middle of a sprawling apartment.

 

“Kuroh,” Izumo said before he could, and a lot more cheerfully than he probably would have.

 

Yata dropped his hand from his gun. “Oh, yay.”

 

“He's not a bad guy, just protective of his people. Like us,” Izumo said, and then raised his voice to be heard over the water and the planks creaking under their feet. “Kuroh, what brings you into HOMRA territory?”

 

“I don't come to bring any trouble. Koji-san has been a friend of mine since he brought me back from Japan, and I visit him from time to time.”

 

Izumo raised his hands. “We have no problem with Hakumai-to. Just curious. Any word on Yukari's business overseas?”

 

“He's likely fulfilling a contract he accepted before JUNGLE employed him.” The mention of Yukari had his fingers tracing the guard on his sword.

 

“Contract?” Yata asked.

 

Kuroh looked around. Yata had done the same when he got out of the car, but as far as his eyes could see there were only shipping containers, a couple of small boats, and further down he could see the bright yellows and oranges of the construction equipment where they had been working on the docks for large and commercial ferries but the machines lay abandoned for the weekend. He watched the caution tape ripple and snap in the wind. He took a deep breath and had a briny aftertaste on the back of his tongue when he exhaled. He was no surveillance expert, but he was pretty sure they were alone.

 

Kuroh seemed to think so, as well. “Yukari is an assassin by trade. If you wanted my guess, he isn't so much a formal member of JUNGLE as he was hired to be a mercenary when they decided to go to war with you. However, he'd gotten attention for killing several high profile marks all over the world, so there is a strong possibility he had already committed to a contract at a later date when Nagare approached him.”

 

“But why would be gone so long if he was just going to kill someone?” Yata asked, pushing his hair back where it had been blown into his face.

 

“Some of the people he has gone after in the past are well protected, and have to be closely monitored to know your window of opportunity; politicians, ambassadors, if you can think of an untouchable position of power, Yukari has touched it.”

 

Yata huffed. “Don't know why he'd bother with a bunch of small fries like JUNGLE, then.”

 

“He doesn't care as long as the money is right. We can't be certain he was hired, though. I'm only speculating.”

 

Izumo stared out at the city. “You know him better than anyone. I would bet you're right.”

 

Yata followed his gaze without really seeing anything. He was trying not to show how shaken he was by that piece of information. Yukari had already established a reputation in the short time he had been with JUNGLE as being both intelligent and lethal, but to think how many people he had probably killed just to pad his pockets was turning Yata's stomach. Somebody like that could take a life and not lose any sleep. And if he was an assassin, they would be dead before they knew what hit them.

 

He saw Izumo take a crate from Koji, heard himself mumbling a goodbye to him and Kuroh before following Izumo back down the dock, but he couldn't shake the image of violet tresses and cold eyes framed by doll-like lashes. He opened the door to the Lexus, almost losing his grip on the handle from the sweat on his palm. Yukari was supposed to be back by the end of the summer. That was less than a month away.

 

 

They took the Desert Eagles they picked up from the docks to a pawn shop. On camera, they pawned a couple of holstered guns on film that was too grainy to distinguish the make. The pawn broker would be taking them home to add to his private collection and HOMRA was all the richer for it. Yata went straight for his bike when they got back to the bar, his cut of the deal in his wallet. He couldn't sit with the gang and laugh like the thought of Yukari's return wasn't making him sick to his stomach.

 

He didn't go all the way up to his apartment where he would be alone with his imagination of what might come at the end of summer. He sat on his bike, went to his recent call history, and tapped the contact that was arguably on there the most.

 

“What. Do you. _Want,”_ Fushimi hissed.

 

“Sorry, I didn't know you were busy.”

 

“Oh. It's you.” It sounded dismissive but Fushimi almost sounded relieved.

 

Yata chuckled, feeling some of the weight lift off his chest “Who was that friendly greeting meant for?”

 

“One of my insufferable classmates. I gave Andy my number because we were on the same rotation, and of course he gave it to everyone else. Now they're harassing me.”

 

It was a little too hot to be sitting on his bike, shoes planted on the heat absorbent asphalt, but the discomfort was worth the much needing distraction of talking to him. “Why are they bothering you?”

 

“They want me to come to a stupid dinner they're having for all of us that are finishing our third year at the same time. Graduation is coming up, and they're all ready to party like we're getting our degrees or something.”

 

“I could go threaten 'em for you.”

 

Fushimi laughed, the sound wrapping around his anxiety and strangling a bit more out of his mind. “Tempting but I think I'll just silence my phone.”

 

“Y'know, not to sound like your annoying classmates, but graduating your third year of med school is pretty awesome. Maybe you should go celebrate.” He scuffed the toe of his shoe against the pavement, sending a rock rolling across the white line into the next parking space.

 

“I don't even like talking to those idiots.”

 

“How about I go with you and you can talk to this idiot. Come on, let me show you off in front of those assholes that didn't think you could date somebody.”

 

Fushimi sighed like he had been hopelessly badgered into agreeing. “I guess. Come here, I'll drive.”

 

His phone beeped in his ear. He really had to teach Fushimi how to say goodbye before hanging up. He realized too late that he hadn't asked if it was a formal dinner, but everything in Manhattan seemed fancy so he went up to his apartment for a change of clothes to be safe. He put on the dress shirt Fushimi got him when they went to Asiate and a pair of dark jeans. He looked between his Vans and dress shoes. God, he hated those things. _Hopefully it's not_ too _formal,_ he thought, pulling on his trusted, checkered shoes. He grabbed his keys and was back on the road in less than ten minutes. Maybe because he needed the distraction, maybe because he was going to go see his favorite distraction. _Yeah, right. I'd be excited to see him anyway._

 

He had been to the Scepter building enough times by now that it no longer seemed as ritzy and imposing. Fushimi's door was a welcome sight. He knocked, and assumed the muttering on the other side indicated for him to come in.

 

“Miss me already?” Fushimi teased from his desk chair, his headset glowing blue over his ears.

 

He was wearing an untucked white dress shirt and tight black jeans that immediately made Yata forget they had somewhere to be. His feet carried him over there before his brain caught up. He zeroed in on that feeling of want, letting it force back the concerns and fears that had had built up throughout the day. He focused on it until he was thinking of nothing else.

 

He turned Fushimi's desk chair to face him and lowered himself onto his lap, palms damp from trying something so bold but also from excitement. He slid a leg under each arm of the chair so his feet skimmed the floor. “What if I did?”

 

Fushimi purred low in his throat and slid his hands into the back pockets of Yata's jeans. “I don't guess I would mind that much.”

 

Yata pushed down the mic attached to his headset and kissed him. He rested his hands just under the edge of Fushimi's shirt, feeling the contractions of his flat stomach as he pressed forward to meet his lips. He was surprised that he didn't get hard from the contact. Rather, he just found himself enjoying the closeness.

 

“Let's go celebrate you,” he murmured against Fushimi's lips.

 

Fushimi snorted. “Sap.”

 

“Whatever, let's go.” Yata reluctantly got up (a lot less gracefully than he got into the position) and pulled Fushimi up before he could change his mind.

 

On their way down to the car he noticed the dark circles under Fushimi's eyes and wondered if he should have suggested them going out, but it was so hard to get Fushimi to socialize that he didn't want to back out now. Part of him liked the idea of being the only person Fushimi enjoyed spending time with but he knew that was just a possessive side of him talking and that it wasn't really healthy for Fushimi to shy away from human interaction so much. It was fine if he wanted to be an introvert but Yata at least wanted him to give having friends a chance before he decided against it. A couple hours at this dinner thing and then hopefully he could talk Fushimi into getting some sleep.

 

_An assassin by trade._

 

The words came back to mind unbidden and, while he usually waited for a cue from Fushimi since he knew he wasn't comfortable with much affection that wasn't sexual, he found himself reaching for his hand once the Audi was in gear. He didn't know if Fushimi gave him a weird look for it. He stared out the window, not wanting to explain himself. He just wanted the feeling of Fushimi's fingers in between his to get Yukari out of his head.

 

The car's Bluetooth picked up the last thing on Fushimi's phone. It was a medical podcast. He left it running, and Yata didn't understand anything they were talking about but he didn't mind.

 

A word finally broke past the barrier of white noise the voice had become to him and he turned wide eyes on Fushimi. “Why are they talking about fisting?”

 

“He said _fistula._ ”

 

He blinked. That sounded even worse. “Is that the medical term for fisting?”

 

“A fistula is a passage – surgically made for the most part, but sometimes as the result of injury – between a hollow or tubular organ and the body's surface. Many people have small fistulas through exterior tissue.”

 

“That sounds awful.”

 

Fushimi raised an eyebrow. “I have three of them.”

 

“Oh god, are you gonna be okay?”

 

“They're my ear piercings, you dummy. A fistula forms after the tissue heals to create a passage for the piercing. That's why the inner tissue isn't constantly irritated by having something foreign inside it.”

 

Yata huffed. “Well lah-tee-da.”

 

It was a short drive to _Fete,_ and he didn't know if the squiggle above the word was an accent mark or just decorative. They walked from the parking garage up to the glass doors flanked by electrically lit wall scones that looked pretty close to real candle flames until you were right on top of them. He squinted at the name of the restaurant scrawled on the doors. Yeah, that was supposed to be an accent mark. Damn Manhattan and its pretentious ass dining.

 

“We're with the NY Medical group,” Fushimi told the hostess.

 

She beamed and came out from behind her podium. “Please follow me.”

 

Whoever decorated the place sure did like crystal. There were small crystal chandeliers every so far along the ceiling, and crystals hung from the candle holders in the center of each table. Most of the tables were surrounded by cushioned chairs but larger tables in the corners had long, ivory leather booths curving around them, and that was where they found the Fushimi's classmates.

 

“I'm glad you decided to come,” said a young blond woman. Her coiffed blonde curls bounced on her shoulders as she slid further into the booth to make room, ruffling her periwinkle cocktail dress around her knees in the process.

 

Yata slid in first in case Fushimi needed to get up and take a break from the crowd. “I think that's the first female classmate of yours I've seen.”

 

“That's just Seri.” At Yata's confused look as he tried to match the name to someone, Fushimi added, “Dr. Awashima.”

 

“Woah, she looks so young out of the hospital. And nice.”

 

“I can hear you,” Seri said with a small pout.

 

Yata's apology was drowned out by Andy's excited cry to have the group all together. “To everyone who doesn't know, this is Fushimi's boyfriend. Yata, we are Fushimi's classmates that may be inferior in grades but are vastly superior in charisma and fashion sense.” He raised his glass in a toast (to himself?) and took a long sip of his mixed drink.

 

Greetings flew around the table and Yata reached under the table, searching out Fushimi's hand for his benefit rather than his own this time. He could tell by how fast Fushimi met him halfway that he was uneasy. He ran his thumb across the back of Fushimi's hand, yet again questioning his decision to drag him out to this thing.

 

“Drinks?” he asked.

 

Fushimi considered that for a moment. “I've never done much drinking besides wine. I guess if I'm going to try, this would be the night to do it.”

 

“Well if you haven't drank you won't really have a preference so I'll just order for both of us.”

 

Fushimi seemed satisfied by not being tasked with it, so Yata asked for two Long Islands when the waitress came over. If they were made right – and he suspected they would be, looking at the massive L-shaped bar that spanned almost the whole left side of the restaurant and impressive alcohol selection on the wall – they didn't have an overpowering alcohol taste. In the meantime he turned to Seri, trying to ease them into a conversation.

 

“I didn't think you were still in school, Dr. Awashima.”

 

Her glossed lips turned up in a smile. “Seri, please. And I'm not, but Andy was kind enough to invite me out with them anyway.”

 

“Have you always wanted to work in pediatrics?”

 

“I've always liked kids, so I guess it just made sense.” She directed her smile to the other side of him. “Sometimes the shoe fits. Just like Fushimi when he did his rotation with trauma, he was a natural. Not everyone can work under that kind of pressure.”

 

Yata felt Fushimi tense slightly under the sudden attention and was glad when the waitress came over with their drinks. She had a few for other people at the table, too, saving Yata from having to find a way to end the conversation before Fushimi got too uncomfortable.

 

He clinked his glass against the identical one next to it. “Give it a try. Have a drink to finishing your third year of med school with flying colors.”

 

“I haven't finished it yet,” Fushimi reminded him, but he took a tentative sip through the straw. “It doesn't taste bad like wine does.”

 

“They make a great drink here, I'll give 'em that. Even if I do feel kinda bad cheating on Izumo's drinks like this.”

 

Fushimi took a long drink through his straw. “I'm sure they'll understand.”

 

“You might not want...never mind.” He was going to caution him against drinking so fast since, also unlike wine, the liquor used in these had a pretty high alcohol content, but Fushimi's hand had slipped away to hold his glass and he didn't look as tense. He decided to leave him be. Worst case, he learned the hard way and Yata would hold his hair back in the bathroom later.

 

Andy leaned forward on his elbows to be heard over Seri's conversation with the person on the other side of her, a young man with long bangs that Yata thought he remembered being introduced as Akiyama. “You guys haven't even seen the best part of this place yet. Just wait until we go to the back.”

 

“The back?” Fushimi repeated skeptically around his straw.

 

“You'll see. It's going to be super fun. Waitress!” He waved his hand to the blouse-clad woman a couple tables over with a bright smile. “Another drink for everyone on me, please.”

 

Given how many drinks that entailed, it took her a few minutes to have the drinks made and return with the full tray, and Yata wasn't surprised if not mildly alarmed to see Fushimi's first glass sitting empty. He _was_ surprised, however, when he wrapped his hands around his new drink and dropped his head against Yata's shoulder as he sipped on it. Fushimi seemed oblivious to the startled looks that came his way at the affectionate gesture.

 

Yata grinned and wrapped an arm around his waist in the rare instance it might actually be tolerated. For the first time that evening he second-guessed his second-guessing and thought maybe talking him into this wasn't going such a bad idea. Best of all, he entirely forgot about JUNGLE with a tipsy boyfriend leaning against him, and the night was still young.

 


	15. Gambit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone would be so kind as to help me branch out onto a new platform and come follow me, I am now on twitter! (@xoTsundoku) I would like do Q and As about various subjects (from reading to writing to ships) but I'm up to answer any question (not that I know what anyone could possibly want to ask me, damn I'm bad at this self-plugging thing) or discuss your interests! I would love to get to know my readers better and just generally have a new place to interact with others. Thank you in advance if you take the time to check it out and I hope to hear from you there <3
> 
> And as always thank you for coming to read the new chapter! There is nothing that brightens my day more than seeing a review notification in my email.
> 
> So here is Chapter 15: Gambit
> 
> (or "Misaki Yata's Emotional Rollercoaster, Please Keep Hands In The Ride At All Times")
> 
> ((or "Misaki Is Not So Much Catching Feelings As Getting Slapped In The Face With Them At The Worst Time Possible"))
> 
> Ehm.
> 
> Chapter 15: #saveMisaki2k18

While alcohol didn't turn Fushimi into a social butterfly, it at least turned him into a slightly calmer butterfly that could tolerate the crowd as long as neither Yata or his drink was out of arm's reach. Yata was trying his best not to enjoy it. He didn't want drinking to be a permanent solution to his social anxiety but they _were_ supposed to be celebrating and it _was_ kind of nice to see Fushimi enjoying physical contact with him in a way that wasn't just sexual. 

 

_He's right,_ he lamented to himself.  _I'm a damn sap._

 

“Let's go check out the bowling,” Andy said once everyone had eaten dinner.

 

Yata looked around the upscale restaurant, and Seri answered his unspoken question. “You'll see. _Fete_ was designed to be both sophisticated and fun.”

 

He shared a look with Fushimi, who shrugged, so they followed the group to the back of the restaurant. He assumed when you went around the corner that it was just a hallway with bathrooms or something but he quickly realized what he thought was the majority of the restaurant was only about half of it. He stared at the other half with an open mouth.

 

Around the partition that separated it from the dining area, and down a short set of polished stairs, was a six lane bowling alley strung with the same crystal light fixtures as the rest of the place. The balls were muted colors with a faint shine to them, the scoreboard screens displaying black letters against a plain ivory background. There was none of the flashiness Yata was used to seeing in such a place. It really was sophisticated to be a freakin' bowling alley.

 

“Fushimi, Yata, I'm glad you came to join us,” called a deep voice.

 

Yata looked up to see Doc at the end of the lanes, standing by a precariously balanced tower of blocks. “Life sized Jenga?” he asked with a chuckle.

 

“I am nearly undefeated.” Reisi abandoned his game to come stand with them. “Seri, are you in need of a teammate by chance?”

 

She cracked her neck and Yata felt the blood drain out of his face. The two doctors shared a conspiratorial smile that said they took their games seriously and going by the groan of dread he heard from a few of the students, they were a damn good team.

 

“Me and Akiyama have you guys this time,” Andy warned, holding up his chosen teammate by the wrist.

 

Yata gave Fushimi a light elbow in the ribs. “Wanna play?”

 

“I've never been bowling.” Fushimi looked less than pleased to be admitting he didn't know something.

 

“I'll teach you. C'mon, let's give it a try.”

 

Two more of Fushimi's classmates, Benzai and Fuse, made up the fourth team while the rest gathered around to spectate. Reisi rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt to expose (alarmingly) toned forearms. Seri was trying out different balls, testing their weight and seeing how they fit her fingers. Andy didn't seem concerned with anything except laying claim to the pastel pink ball on his and Akiyama's lane. Yata had a fleeting desire to introduce him to Tatara.

 

“See how you like this one,” Yata said, taking Fushimi's drink out of his hand and giving him a grey ball.

 

Fushimi slid his fingers into the three holes. “It works I guess.”

 

He stood behind Fushimi and put one hand on his hip and the other on his arm, trying to ignore the giggles and whispers of his classmates watching them. _How old are these guys anyway?_ He tuned them out and adjusted Fushimi's arm. “You're gonna pull your arm back like this before you throw, and when you get about here,” he said, guiding Fushimi's hand into the motion, “just let it go. If the ball matches your hand right it shouldn't pull on your knuckles or anything.”

 

Fushimi leaned back on him slightly and Yata had to wonder if he realized he was doing it, but he wasn't about to say anything. Fushimi held the ball out in front of him, aligning it with the center of the lane. “So this is a game of precision.”

 

“Yeah, in a way.”

 

“I'm ready.”

 

With a quick visit to the counter where they reserved their lanes, the game was underway. Yata heard a pleasant chime over the piano music playing and looked up at the screen next to theirs. Reisi and Seri had a strike before anyone else had even rolled the ball. Geez.

 

On the other side of them, Andy was failing miserably and having a blast. Yata had never seen someone cheer for a gutterball but he guessed enough tequila made anything worth celebrating. Fuse wasn't half bad, only a couple points behind Reisi and Seri after their first round. Then several sets of expectant eyes fell on Fushimi and him. Right. They were the only ones who hadn't done anything yet.

 

“You wanna go first?” he asked.

 

“You go,” Fushimi said around his straw, having apparently found his drink again.

 

He picked up a sage green ball and found a comfortable stance. It had been years since he'd gone bowling, probably since his father was still around. He hadn't been very good at it back then. He tried to muster some confidence, though, since he had learned a lot about trajectory and how weight influenced the way something travels from Izumo when he taught him to shoot a gun. He didn't remember all the technical terms for it but he thought he still had the idea.

 

He let go of the ball and the screen above his head was chiming moments later, all of the pins laying on the sides, one still trying to roll a little further. His stomach did a twisty thing when Fushimi came up behind him to drop his chin on Yata's head and announce, “My turn.”

 

Fushimi entered the stance Yata showed him with a look of complete focus. And, when another chime followed that, the third years of Fushimi's class and his two senior doctors learned _not_ to bowl against a sharpshooter and a future surgeon.

 

“How can any one person aim that well?” Benzai said, staring up at their scores.

 

Andy groaned. “Let alone _two._ Man, I thought Reisi and Seri were good.”

 

“We've been replaced,” Seri lamented.

 

Reisi patted her shoulder. “Weeded out by the younger generation. I can only hope they'll visit us when we retire to Tampa.” He straightened, then, becoming serious so suddenly that a few of the students drew closer together under the intensity of his stare. “By the Fall, you will all be in your fourth and final year as fledgling medical students.”

 

The few who had still been carrying on their own conversations quieted, and they all formed a loose semicircle around Reisi to listen. Yata felt like he was intruding on something. He was debating a conveniently timed trip to the bathroom when fingers slid between his, holding his feet in place more securely than any shackles. He looked up at Fushimi even though Fushimi wasn't looking at him. The light filtered through the crystal chandeliers through solemn shadows over his features, and Yata wondered what he was thinking, if any part of him realized that his face was betraying the very feelings he didn't understand himself.

 

“I have had no greater pleasure than to nurture and teach you all to the best of my abilities. Whether you go on after school to work in a clinic or be a pediatrician, or enter a research field, or be a trauma surgeon-” His eyes landed briefly on Fushimi, and Yata felt him shift under Reisi's fond stare. “-I have no doubt that the young men I see now will incredible doctors. The medical field is lucky to have you. _I've_ been lucky to have you.”

 

“Oh stop, you're not even a teacher,” Andy muttered, but Yata could see the tracks glistening on his cheeks.

 

Seri had excused herself before he started, and she now returned with a tray of drinks. She moved through the throng of students, passing out flutes of champagne, before going back to Reisi's side to sit the empty tray down and pass him one as well. He clinked his glass against hers in silent thanks before raising it to the students.

 

“To the courageous, brilliant class of the New York University School of Medicine and the three years you have devoted to your education.”

 

Yata had to elbow Fushimi to get him to hold his glass up with everyone else, and he was pretty sure he heard sniffling from the woman working the counter for the bowling lanes. He grinned at the bubbly drinks sparkling over their heads.

 

When they had all taken a drink to Reisi's toast, Yata leaned over and said only loud enough for Fushimi to hear, “I'm proud of you.”

 

Fushimi clicked his tongue and looked away, but not before Yata saw color come to his cheeks. “Let's go see the patio.”

 

They slipped away from the crowd and went back up the stairs and around the corner into the main dining area. Yata hadn't paid much attention to the sliding glass door at the end of the bar, but Fushimi had apparently been keeping an eye out for an escape route. He was glad to see there was only one more group on the spacious stone patio, taking pictures with the city at their backs. Fushimi went to the opposite side where a bench sat in front of a low glass table. Yata sat down first and didn't completely succeed in hiding his smile when Fushimi sat sideways and stretched his legs out over his lap.

 

“Feels nice now that the sun's gone down,” Yata remarked, looking out at the twilight hued city, running his hand over one of Fushimi's denim clad calves.

 

Fushimi tilted his head back against the low stone wall. “I probably won't stay much later, just long enough for my head to clear from the drinking. I have class early.”

 

“I'm glad you came out, though.”

 

“Why? You don't even know any of my classmates.”

 

“Life's a bitch. You should celebrate when you have something worth celebrating.”

 

Fushimi finished the last sip of his Long Island that he had retrieved on their way out of the bowling alley and sat the empty glass on the table. “You sound like you need something like that.”

 

“I have you.”

 

He really, _really_ didn't mean to say that. He dropped his eyes to the dress shoes on the other side of his lap. The people on the other side of the patio were laughing and he wished he could share their mirth. _I know you can't return that feeling because it doesn't make sense to you, and I know I told you I could accept that, but damn if it doesn't suck a little._ He refused to give his petulant thoughts a voice. They were celebrating Fushimi's approaching graduation, he wasn't going to wallow about something neither of them could control.

 

“What a blood splattered life you have, for someone as dark as me to be your silver lining.”

 

Yata cupped his hand over Fushimi's knee. “The sky's dark at night. It's still beautiful.”

 

Fushimi snorted. “You're going to start missing the sun.”

 

“I'd miss your stars more.”

 

He didn't get the expected lecture about sentimentality. Fushimi drew himself closer, legs bending up over Yata's lap, and turned Yata toward him. Yata gasped at the sudden pressure of Fushimi's lips. It was warm to the touch with quieter, hotter demands burning underneath. It was everything he could do to remember the people on the other side of the patio as he tugged Fushimi's lip between his teeth, shivering at the purr of encouragement he was met with, his stomach going all tingly when Fushimi's hands framed his face.

 

_I love when you do that,_ he thought, cataloging it among all the other things he wasn't going to say out loud. He cinched his arms around Fushimi's waist. It seemed so skinny, almost fragile in his muscular grasp.  _I love how small you seem like this._

 

_I_

 

“I guess we should head out,” he said, pulling away with a jolt of panic.

 

Fushimi gracefully unfolded himself from his lap. “You're probably right. Let's go before any of them realize we're leaving.”

 

He didn't task his dry mouth with arguing that they should say goodbye. He followed Fushimi inside, startled into silence by the train of thought he had wandered onto. Maybe it was like Fushimi always told him and he had got caught up on endorphins.

 

Fushimi was just distracted enough by his desire to slip away unnoticed that Yata had time to pay the check for a change. He signed off on the receipt and they made it out the front door without running into any classmates. They must have been going for another round of bowling, or trying to beat Reisi at Jenga. He looked up and down the street as they crossed it to the parking garage. There was no logical reason for JUNGLE to be there or to have found out the dinner was even happening, but too many injuries were piling up to underestimate them.

 

“You're paranoid,” Fushimi said as they rode the elevator to the floor they parked on.

 

“I've got a reason to be.”

 

Fushimi hummed, and when Yata looked up at him his eyes seemed faraway, like his body was stepping off the elevator but his mind had gone somewhere else. “That man was paranoid before we left California. Always saying 'they were coming.'”

 

“Is he better now?” He could only assume Fushimi was talking about his father.

 

“I guess,” Fushimi said, unclipping his keys from the belt loop of his jeans. “I try not to listen to him.”

 

Headlights flashed down the row as Fushimi unlocked the Audi remotely. Yata didn't like the way Fushimi seemed to detach at the mention of him, so he didn't ask anything else. He had never pegged Fushimi's father as a strictly bad guy after he went to the expense of putting him through medical school (and he could think of worse offenses than pressuring your kid into such a lucrative career) but he was also beginning to think the man wasn't all there.

 

He trained his eyes out the window as they pulled out of the parking garage. He couldn't bring himself to look and see if Fushimi's palm laid open on his leg, didn't trust those treacherous feelings not to surge back up if he took it. Fushimi didn't comment nor did Yata expect him to. Even if he was wondering about the small change in behavior, he doubted Fushimi's stubborn ass would ask about it. He was glad about that for once. What would he even say if he didn't want to lie? _It's cool, I'm just trying not to get any more serious about you than I already am 'cause, you know, that would be awkward._ He just wanted to keep going out with Fushimi and enjoy his company and having someone to share physical pleasure with, and leave it at that.

 

He watched the cars pass by on the opposite side of the street. The worst of evening traffic was over but there was enough dinnertime stragglers left that no one was moving especially fast. He felt like there were as many taxis on the road as regular cars if not more. He was even more surprised to see a motorcycle fly up the center of the lane, narrowly avoiding the sideview mirrors of the cars on either side. He chuckled; he had done that a time or two in heavy traffic. It was a nice bike, too, black with metallic green flames running down the side.

 

Wait.

 

He'd heard someone describe a paint job like that.

 

He snatched his phone up and it took three tries to unlock it with his shaking fingers. Fushimi was talking, probably asking what his malfunction was, but it took every bit of his focus to scroll through his contacts and god _dammit_ had the green button to call someone with always been that small? He finally managed to press it and put the phone to his ear. In the rearview mirror he saw the bike straddling the two lanes opposite them, stopped by a red light at the intersection they had just passed through.

 

Izumo answered on the second ring. “What's up, Yata?”

 

“The bike, the one that took Ace away from the bar in College Point. It was black with green flames, right? A street bike built kinda like mine?”

 

“Yeah, it's the only one like it that I've seen. I haven't seen it since, though, not that I'd expect them to hang around Flushing unless they have a death wish.”

 

Yata cursed under his breath as the light turned green and the bike sped in the opposite direction. He saw Fushimi look over his shoulder, likely made curious by Yata's half of the conversation. “Looks like they hang around Manhattan instead.”

 

“Try to get the plate number if you have them. You won't be able to catch them, they're too fast, but get us anything we can work with.”

 

Yata put the phone on speaker to open a text draft he could type in. “I only caught a few numbers, it was going the other- _shit!_ ”

 

His phone slid off his lap and clattered into the floorboard as the Audi fishtailed into a U-turn around the median. Horns blared and Izumo's voice sounded tinny from under the seat where his phone ended up. Fushimi's foot went to the clutch and he rammed into a higher gear, the engine growling as though in excitement. Someone else honked at them as he wove between two cars.

 

Yata got a hold of his phone and put it back to his ear with wide eyes. “I think I might have someone that can keep up with them.”

 

“Do not engage them, Yata. See if you can follow them back to their base and then get the hell out.” Izumo couldn't mask the enthusiasm in his voice at the prospect of getting more intel on them.

 

“Understood.”

 

He hung up and put a hand on the door to steady himself as Fushimi took off down an empty turn lane, past the stalled traffic, and whipped back in front of them just as the light turned green. The motorcycle was in sight again.

 

“Do you think you can stay far enough behind for him not to know we're following?” Yata asked.

 

Fushimi jerked the wheel and they swerved into the right lane. “He'll never know we're here.”

 

The back end of the car spun out again, Yata narrowly bracing himself to avoid smacking into the window as they took a sharp right into an alley. It didn't even look big enough to fit through and he didn't think he could have fit a finger between the sideview mirrors and the brick walls blurring past them. The vents carried in the smell of burning rubber when Fushimi drifted sideways, toward the left, and punched the gas. He didn't let up until they passed the next alley and Yata looked down to see a flash of metallic green on the other end.

 

“What if they turn off between blocks?” Yata asked.

 

“I've been driving in Manhattan since I was a freshman in high school. There's nowhere that bike can go in this city where I can't find it.” He had matched the motorcycle's speed, and every time they came to an alley or intersection Yata looked over to make sure they were still beside it.

 

True to Yata's concerns, they vanished from sight in another two blocks. Fushimi turned left and began shifting up again. “They had to have turned left, we would have seen them turn out if they had gone right.”

 

“They're going to the bridge,” Yata said, recognizing their surroundings from when he picked Fushimi up from school and took him to the Gantry Plaza.

 

Fushimi soared under a yellow light just as it turned red. “Must be going back to College Point.”

 

At this point he could only trust Fushimi's driving and hope he would stay far enough behind them on the bridge to not raise suspicion. He took his first deep breath since they went after the bike - which brought him to something he had been wondering since Fushimi turned around while he was talking to Izumo. “Why did you go after it?”

 

“Your sewer rats don't come above ground often,” Fushimi said, dropping back by a few cars when he saw the motorcycle merging in ahead.

 

“This isn't your fight.”

 

Fushimi's fingers twitched on his knee. “I just wanted to see if I could catch them. And would you look at that, I've done what your precious gang couldn't,” he said, mouth curling into a cold smirk.

 

“Figures. Always a competition for you, huh?” There was no real anger to the words, he was just tired, and maybe some small part of him had hoped Fushimi would say he did it for him.

 

Fushimi fixed his eyes on the road. Night had fallen, the lights on the bridge reflecting off his glasses. “It wouldn't be if I didn't have to compete with them.”

 

“That doesn't even make sense.”

 

“No. I guess it wouldn't.”

 

Yata didn't dignify the breathy, flippant answer with a response. He was pretty sure Fushimi was in one of his moods where he just wanted to mess with him. He didn't mind, since regardless of his motivations Fushimi _had_ caught up to someone the gang had been after since Mikoto roughed up Ace at the bar, and Yata was grateful. The least he could do was lend an ear to Fushimi's rhetoric if that was all he wanted in return. It also helped that even if he was being annoying, the sound of Fushimi's voice was a tonic to his nerves. He was itching to have Fushimi run that motorcycle riding bastard off the road. _Izumo is our strategist for a reason, you gotta keep your head on and listen to him,_ he reminded himself.

 

“So much for that rest you needed to get,” he tried to joke.

 

Fushimi raised one shoulder. “I don't sleep much.”

 

“I really do appreciate you doing this.”

 

“It's fine.”

 

Yata sighed. As though he had flipped a switch, Fushimi was back to his clipped responses that made conversation seem like a hassle. He watched the JUNGLE member weave in and out of traffic ahead of them, not seeming any wiser to their presence where they lingered about three cars back.

 

It was a quiet but not uncomfortable ride through Long Island City. As frustrated as he was by his own feelings, it did stir a certain warmth in his chest when they passed Mount Sinai. He watched Fushimi's fingers drum against his thigh. It made his own tingle in response, like his muscles were already in the habit of reaching for him. He busied himself instead with taking his gun out of his waistband and putting it in his lap, safety on.

 

“Planning on a fight?” Fushimi asked.

 

“As much as I would love to blow a few extra assholes into this guy, I can't storm JUNGLE's base without backup. I just need to see where they're going and report it back to Izumo and the Boss. On the off chance they do catch on, though, I don't think they're going to throw confetti and give us a welcoming party.”

 

Fushimi glanced over at him, at the loose hold he had on the 92. “You think it could get hostile.”

 

“If this goes wrong, yeah. But don't worry.” His fingers tightened around the embossed grip.

 

“They don't scare me.”

 

“They shouldn't. I'm not gonna let them hurt you.”

 

The assurance seemed to chip away at the ill mood Fushimi had lapsed into. Fushimi's lips tilted up into something more genuine than his taunting smirk when he talked about outdoing HOMRA. It was a smile that faded from his face by the time they reached College Point but lingered in his eyes. It was too pleased an expression for someone going into a war zone, and made Yata's stomach do too many somersaults for him to think whether or not he held Fushimi's hand was going to do jack shit to keep his feelings at bay. Dammit.

 

He had to set that aside for right now, though. Traffic had thinned to the point that following the bike was a gambit with the constant risk of being noticed. Fushimi's car stood out, they could notice at any time that it was tailing them, and there were few other cars to fall behind for cover. Yata just hoped they were at ease in their own territory and didn't fully have their guard up.

 

They were approaching a street made up of a closed down strip mall, and further down, a warehouse. Fushimi turned his headlights off and slowed to reduce the sound of the engine. The streetlamps were the only thing still lit among the row of abandoned buildings. Yata's hands went slick around his gun.

 

_Chink, chink._

 

It wasn't the same warehouse but it was making his throat tighten up all the same. Even though it usually didn't give him any more grief these days than itching and the occasional throb, he could feel the phantom pain of that night searing down his leg.

 

_Yata, he's got my-_

 

“Misaki,” Fushimi said, and a dry hand covered Yata's sweating one.

 

He blinked himself back to the present. “Sorry. Last time I crossed paths with JUNGLE at a warehouse, I got shot. Hopefully history doesn't repeat itself.”

 

“If it does I'll just sew you up again.” Fushimi returned his hand to the wheel and eased forward now that the motorcycle had vanished around the slight curve that led to the warehouse.

 

Yata chuckled. He wasn't happy with their location but it was a comforting reminder that he was with a surgeon. The warehouse came into view, and Fushimi backed in behind the strip mall, away from any streetlamps but close enough to the warehouse for them to see what was going on under its industrial floodlights. A booted foot knocked the kickstand into the gravel and the rider stood up. They were shorter than Yata expected, more slender than he realized when they weren't hunched forward on the bike.

 

“There's a bunch of cameras mounted outside, this has got to be the place,” he murmured, not that anyone at the warehouse would be able to hear him from that distance. There was also a line of cars parked at the far end of the warehouse too far away for him to make out details of, but it confirmed there were more people in there than just the owner of the bike.

 

The rider removed their helmet and long, platinum waves fell down their back. Yata's mouth fell open. “It's a girl.”

 

“You seem surprised.”

 

“That's just one of the few female members of JUNGLE I've seen. She hauled a guy who couldn't walk onto her bike, I expected it to be a man just because of the strength that would take. Ace was six feet of dead weight. Not trying to be sexist or anything but even I would struggle with that.”

 

Fushimi folded his arms on the steering wheel and propped his chin on them to watch. “I guess she isn't your average girl.”

 

Yata zoomed in as far as he could with his phone and started snapping pictures in rapid succession. He made sure to get every surveillance camera in sight, and switched it to video when the woman approached a narrow steel door. She punched something into a keypad that flashed green and then she was going inside. He ended the video and took a couple final pictures of her bike.

 

“Let's get out of here,” he said, attaching all the pictures to a text and sending them to Izumo. The file size of the video was too large so he would have to show him that in person.

 

Rather than pulling forward, back into view of the warehouse, Fushimi shifted into reverse and backed down the backside of the strip mall before doing a one-eighty to exit the far end of the parking lot. Yata eyes were glued to the rearview mirror until they were off that street, and he checked it almost constantly until they were out of College Point altogether.

 

“We did it,” he said, sagging back into the seat. “This is huge, this is what we needed. I can't wait to meet up with everyone and talk about what we found.”

 

“Tch. Don't go jumping out of the car just yet, you still have to get your motorcycle from my place.”

 

Yata had no objections to that. He wouldn't have had the chance to voice them even if he did, since Fushimi tapped the screen and brought up an audiobook of a medical journal, but he was content to tip his head back and halfway listen to the mumbo-jumbo playing from the speakers. It made the drive back to Manhattan go by faster (somehow, since it was boring as shit) and it felt like they were in the parking garage in no time.

 

He got out of the car and stretched. For possibly the first time ever, he was glad he wasn't any taller. He couldn't imagine cramming any more than his meager five and a half feet into the Audi. He gave it an appreciative pat anyway since they couldn't have caught up to JUNGLE's rider without the speedy little devil.

 

Fushimi circled around to lean against the passenger's side door, and Yata offered him a sheepish grin. “Sorry your pre-graduation party got so crazy.”

 

“At least it wasn't boring. Besides, I would rather chase a gangster all over New York than socialize with those idiots again.”

 

“They're your idiots,” Yata said, poking him in the chest.

 

Fushimi caught his hand and used it to pull him forward. “You're my idiot.”

 

Yata let his weight fall into Fushimi, who was in turn supported by the car at his back, the scuffling of their feet echoing through the parking garage. His legs still felt like jelly from nerves so he tilted his head back and let Fushimi meet him halfway. He was sure his legs would just give up if he tried to get on his tiptoes.

 

It would have been easy to part his lips, to tangle his fingers in Fushimi's hair, maybe get dragged up to his apartment to revel in more of the pleasures Fushimi had so recently introduced him to, but he had to get back to the bar. He made himself step back.

 

“I should go” he said. He took his keys out and twisted the ring around his finger. “Look, I know you don't care about the gang and the war and all that, but if I hadn't been with you tonight we might have never caught her. And I definitely don't think anyone else could have kept up with her. So, thanks. You were...kind of awesome.”

 

Fushimi rolled his eyes, the dismissive action belied by the upward curve of his mouth. “Tch. Go meet them before they start the chant without you.”

 

“You're an ass.” He straddled his bike that was parked next to Fushimi's car. “Get some sleep, Sunshine.”

 

Fushimi waved him off and he started the engine. It was almost deafening in the parking garage. As soon as he was back on the road, he rolled the throttle back and leaned forward. No leisurely rides tonight; he was in a hurry. The wind blew his hair out of his face and whipped his dress shirt up his back.

 

He made record time of getting back to Flushing. He let himself into the bar where Izumo, Tatara, Mikoto and Chitose already waited. He was the most surprised to see Dewa come out of the bathroom and drop himself on the couch.

 

“Good to see you up and around,” he said, locking the door behind him.

 

Dewa groaned and rubbed his chest. “Up is generous and around is an overstatement, but I'm here.”

 

Izumo had a laptop open on the bar and Yata recognized the pictures he had sent over. Tatara was sitting on a barstool, clicking through them. “I recognize these cameras. If I'm not mistaken, these are the ones that came out a couple years ago with integrated facial recognition. You can upload images to the corresponding software and anyone who isn't recognized will trigger an alarm.”

 

“I've got a video of the girl entering something at the panel by the door, if you think you can do anything with it,” Yata said, hopping onto the stool next to him.

 

Tatara passed him the end of the USB cable attached to the laptop. “I can try.”

 

Yata's phone vibrated as it recognized the cable, and Tatara transferred the video to the laptop. He had obviously come out in a hurry. There was none of his usual flair to be found in his faded Fashion Week shirt and sweatpants. Izumo stood on the other side of the bar, watching the laptop screen upside down as Tatara zoomed in on the video.

 

“There's a lot of different keypads out there so I could be wrong but that panel looks custom built. Computers are JUNGLE's thing, it wouldn't surprise me,” Tatara said.

 

“I don't give a shit if their little box there says we can come in,” Mikoto said, his Tims dropping to the floor as he stood up from the couch. Cigarette smoke wafted around the bar as he came to join them. “We burn it down.”

 

“We can't know for sure that Nagare is there. If he's not, we'll be burning down the only place that might have something to put us on his trail,” Izumo said.

 

Chitose, still on the couch with Dewa, shook his head. “I'm with the Boss. We've tried being patient and forming a strategy and it hasn't gotten us anywhere. We need to hit them before they move again.”

 

“It's for naught if we don't take Nagare down with them,” Izumo said, voice climbing. “JUNGLE is rooted in the Internet, we can wipe out as many members as we want and there will be plenty more to take their place. We need their leader.”

 

The argument more or less dissolved into chaos after that, with everyone shouting except Yata and Tatara. Yata wanted to see if they even had a chance of getting into that warehouse before he voiced an opinion, and everyone already knew what Tatara's stance would be. Not only was he the least violent of HOMRA's members but he was a thief, his go-to would always be going in undetected and staying that way for as long as possible.

 

“I can't believe we're fighting each other like this,” Yata said, having thought the information he got would lead to a much happier end.

 

“I can't believe it's not butter,” Tatara said empathetically.

 

Yata dropped his forehead on the bar. He could see both sides. There was nothing that would satisfy him more than reducing that warehouse to a pile of ashes but if Nagare wasn't there, they may never get another chance at catching him. It was a damn lucky break he found the warehouse at all. With how things had been going, he didn't think for a minute they would be so fortunate a second time. The most ideal plan of action would be to get into the warehouse, either confirm that Nagare was there or search it for anything useful about where he might be, and _then_ burn it down. Unfortunately that would require someone who could out-hack JUNGLE and they didn't have anyone like that.

 

Yata repeated the thought to himself and slowly raised his head from the bar.

 

Or _did_ they?

 


	16. Greed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter with actual plot! Maybe that's why it took longer to write
> 
> No seriously I just got my own computer (pictures of my setup on my Instagram! Go check them out or just DM me to yell about fandom, my insta is same as here, @xotsundoku) and it doesn't have Internet yet, which I thought it would by the time I finished the chapter, so I had to transfer it over to the laptop I was using before to be able to post it.
> 
> In short, sorry it took so long. Thank you so much for reading and supporting the story, nothing makes me happier than reading your reviews!! I may be biased but I'm wholeheartedly of the belief that I have the most ballin' readers ever.
> 
> Alt. chapter title if I didn't have the "G" theme: I Thought My Immune System Would Keep Me From Catching Feelings

“Maybe we could scout it and see if there's another way in,” Anna suggested, having shown up about the time everyone started arguing.

 

“No way in hell,” Chitose said. “We tried to scout Yukari's apartment and look what happened.”

 

Mikoto smashed his cigarette into the ashtray on the bar. “Which is why we take out that fucking warehouse. Best case we get Nagare, worst case we put a hurting on their numbers.”

 

Rikio, who had been the one to bring Anna, gave Yata a look from where he stood at the end of the bar. It was weird to see big, boisterous Rikio at a loss for words with the rest of them. He usually had something to say even if it wasn't helpful. It would have been nice to hear him pipe up, though, if for no other reason than making things feel normal again. Yata guessed he didn't have any room to talk. Before he was shot, he was pretty wide open all the time. He'd had a lot less to say since then.

 

“Three days,” Izumo said, glaring over the top of his glasses.

 

Mikoto took out his cigarette pack, growled when he found it empty. “Huh?”

 

“Give it three days before we decide. Let me get through the damn reopening of my bar.”

 

“Let us have one good night before this goes down,” Tatara added, swiveling on his stool to face Mikoto.

 

“Three days. Then if we can't come to a better decision I'll go drop the match my fucking self, and I'll use anybody who tries to stop me as kindling, you got it?”

 

There was a mumbling of acknowledgment throughout the bar, and Mikoto turned, his coat arcing out behind his boots. “Good. I'm goin' to the corner store, I need a carton of cigarettes.”

 

Yata let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. The Boss usually just took one of Izumo's cigarettes when he was out but he would almost bet he just needed to get out of the bar before he changed his mind. The door slammed and the bell chimed all too cheerfully behind him. He trusted Mikoto, and he admired him more than anyone else in the world, but sometimes he wondered if that raging temper caused as many problems as it solved. It had been infectious when Yata joined. He had wanted to litter the streets with blood and ashes just like the Boss but now he was starting to fear it would be Mikoto's ashes on the wind if he didn't reign himself in. _It'll be okay._ He was HOMRA's defender and if that meant protecting Mikoto from himself, he would do that, too. Or at least try.

 

“We wouldn't make good kindling,” Anna said, looking at the door. “We're made out of too much water.”

 

Tatara ruffled her hair. “I guess we're safe then.”

 

“Alright, everybody scram. I'm going to bed,” Izumo said.

 

Yata was already trying to think of an excuse to slip away so he was all too happy to say his goodbyes and get out of there. He ducked out and made a beeline for his apartment before Rikio could invite him over for a stoop party or Chitose could ask where he stood on the warehouse argument. As much as he wanted some grilled burgers or to tell Yuu to cool his jets, he had too damn much on his mind.

 

Flushing nights weren't quite as bright and alive as those in Manhattan, but the vague murkiness of his city came as a comfort. One of the lights on Hao-Chi's sign had been going out since he joined the gang, somehow still flickering and clinging to life. In the daylight or under one of the dim overheads in the alley, he knew he would find their emblem sprayed across the bricks. It wasn't a luxurious place but it was home and it was HOMRA's.

 

He walked home at a quicker pace than his leg really appreciated. _I don't want to ask him,_ he thought, disarming the security panel. _But he could help us, and if I don't ask him because of my own feelings, I might lose our only shot at being sure we get Nagare._ He shucked his clothes on the way to the bathroom but didn't feel any less weighted down for it. _This is bigger than either of us,_ he reasoned. _This is for HOMRA, for Flushing. Who knows what they'd do to this city._

 

However, HOMRA wasn't Fushimi's gang and Flushing wasn't his city, and Yata was going to deliberately involve him in something dangerous anyway. No amount of excuses he could make to himself would change that.

 

He turned the shower on and stood under the spray that was just on the other side of warm, the water heater having never quite worked well enough to get it hot. There were times right after he was shot, when he still got chills, that it felt hot by comparison. It felt nice in the winter months. He didn't care about the temperature that night, though. He wasn't even making much of an effort to shower. He just stood with a hand against the wall, the water washing his hair down his lowered head to hang in front of his eyes. He watched it run off the coppery strands that turned to rust when they were wet.

 

Blinking the drops off his eyelashes, he wondered if Fushimi was awake. He wasn't going to ask him tonight. Not when he needed to focus on his classes in the morning. He just wanted to hear his voice, he selfishly wanted to say goodnight while things were still the same, as though he could take the fragile stability of their relationship and preserve it with such mundane words in the tender hours that were neither night or morning that always seemed to bring the deepest sleep or the most thoughtless confessions.

 

He twisted the handle. The water had gone cold. Or maybe it was him that had gone cold from realizing how much of a contradiction it was, to be asking Fushimi to enter the line of fire when all he wanted was to keep him safe, be it from the war or his own habits, because he-

 

No. He pulled a towel over his head like it could block out those thoughts. The rest of his body steadily dripped a puddle on the floor but he didn't pay it any mind. His attention was seized by the divide between his loyalties and his feelings, where choosing either one seemed to inevitably lead to hurting either the gang he had sworn to protect or the person he...cared about.

 

He did a half assed job of drying off and went up to bed with his phone, his gun, and a way worse mood than he should be in after finding JUNGLE's hideout. The mattress creaked in either welcome or protest as threw himself down. The sheets were soon damp but they were usually that way in the hotter months from sweat, anyway. He looked at his phone, debating, before he plugged it in to charge and sat it next to the Beretta. He didn't know how heavy Fushimi slept and he didn't want to risk waking him.

 

He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. It didn't smell like Fushimi anymore, but he remembered how he looked lying there, and he was still thinking of bedraggled hair and glistening white skin when he fell asleep.

 

 

 

The morning was spent making a run with Izumo to deliver some Brownings before they set to the much tamer and more tiring task of stripping and repolishing the floors in the bar. He was glad to find Izumo quiet, gears turning almost audibly in his head as he tried to think of a plan. Yata left him to his thinking. He didn't want to breach the subject, anyway, until he knew if his own idea was going to work. There was no point in mentioning it when he might get flatly refused.

 

He sat on the steps outside while the topcoat dried, menthol tinging his nostrils where Izumo stood against the wall smoking. He went to his messaging screen and sent one to Fushimi.

 

**To: Sunshine**

**10:41 AM**

 

_**When r u out of class I wanna see u** _

 

Izumo had finished his cigarette by the time his phone chimed.

 

**From: Sunshine**

**10:49 AM**

 

_**Clingy. I like it.** _

 

**10:50 AM**

 

_**I'm out in a couple of hours. If you come before then, one of my professors might even teach you how to speak English.** _

 

He scowled and typed out a quick reply.

 

**To: Sunshine**

**10:51 AM**

 

_**Whatever asshole lets meet at gantry plaza park if u dont have plans** _

 

As an afterthought, he added, _**and im not clingy**_

 

He followed Izumo back in to start putting furniture back down from its precarious balancing act on the bartop where upside down tables became the bases of chair pyramids. He noticed Izumo handling the small table he had assembled with Tatara less than gently. It wasn't surprising since the wooden stand he'd had behind the bar for the computer that served as his cash register was lost to the gunfight, and he didn't have time to go looking for another genuine piece so he was reduced to using a piece of IKEA furniture (that only somewhat matched the natural wood throughout the rest of the bar) that he looked at the same way he did the few varieties of bottom shelf liquor he stocked. Yata figured as soon as he found a more suitable replacement or commissioned somebody to build one, there would be a smashed pile of particle board in the alley behind the bar.

 

His phone chimed as he helped Izumo lower one of the larger tables to the floor. Izumo chuckled and Yata knew his glare must have looked petulant as he took his phone out to read the message.

 

**From: Sunshine**

**11:15 AM**

 

_**I'll be at the park by two.** _

 

**To: Sunshine**

**11:16 AM**

 

_**See u then** _

 

He'd had enough phone conversations with Fushimi to know that was the last he would hear from him until they met later. He dropped his phone back into his cargo pants and grabbed a chair off the bar. Izumo was complaining about Mikoto not helping after he went and got the bar shot up, and Yata laughed like his stomach wasn't weighted with dread.

 

 

 

He parked next to the Audi, and started walking when he found it empty. The place wasn't as crowded as he expected for one of the clearest days they'd had in awhile. Maybe it was the heat that kept people away, but the breeze coming off the river made it feel halfway decent. Not that he was complaining. The less people around the better. He had only chosen the State Park instead of one of their apartments because he needed air after breathing in polyurethane all morning, and he had to drag Fushimi out of his seclusion whenever the opportunity presented itself.

 

Fushimi stood with his elbows on the railing, staring across the water at Manhattan, at the building that made up part of his college campus.

 

Yata leaned back next to him, looking out over the city he just came through and knowing Flushing did not lay far past it. The thought didn't comfort him the way it used to.

 

“Practical classes today, huh?” he said, nodding to Fushimi's black scrubs.

 

Fushimi hummed. “The medical center attached to the campus gave us a cadaver.”

 

“That was...nice of them.” He took a deep breath that tasted of salt. “Do you remember the first time we were here, when they called me about Dewa and you came to help?”

 

“I came to practice, but yes, I recall.” His eyes still lingered distantly on the school, so visibly cerulean and sullen where the breeze lifted his bangs from his face.

 

“You chased down that woman like it was nothing...why aren't you afraid of them?”

 

Fushimi ran his finger along a scratch in the railing, actually seeming to give it some thought. “It's not that I don't fear them in particular. I'm just unafraid, entirely.”

 

If he had said them with his usual haughty attitude, the words might have sounded arrogant but he seemed almost resigned, as if he would trade that lack of fear for being able to experience it. Yata hated that he needed the very thing that kept a barrier between them. _I guess it doesn't mean much that I'm scared enough for both of us._

 

“Saruhiko, I need your help,” he said, surprised how calmly it came out when every syllable felt like a piece of glass being wrenched from his throat.

 

Fushimi raised an eyebrow. “Someone else get hit by a car?”

 

“No, but they will. Or worse. There's no telling what JUNGLE will do next, or if the next person they target will be lucky enough to survive.” Yukari's doll-like visage flashed in his mind. He took Fushimi's hand and gently pulled him so they faced each other, with a city on either side that both felt small compared to the guilt eating through his chest. “I need you to get us into that warehouse. You built computers and wrote software, I know you can do it.”

 

“Us,” Fushimi repeated, eyes going dark.

 

Yata gripped his hand a bit tighter. “Yeah, even I'm not crazy enough to go in there alone.”

 

Fushimi's face twisted into something that made Yata feel cold. “ _Us._ It's always going to be you and HOMRA against the world, hmm, Misaki?”

 

“I'm asking you to be part of that! I'm not saying you have to join the gang or anything but I'm asking because I trust you. It may not seem like much, but you know HOMRA is the most important thing in the world to me so it's not like I'd ask just anyone.” He knew he might have been grasping his hand too tight, feeling his knuckles grind together slightly, but he was doing everything he could to make him _understand_. He looked down at his suntanned, calloused fingers wrapped around Fushimi's thin ones. “I swear I won't let JUNGLE hurt you. I wouldn't even ask something like this if we didn't really need the help.”

 

“Fuck them.”

 

Yata looked up as Fushimi jerked his hand back. “Hah?”

 

“I don't want anything to do with your gang. I'll be around the next time you want a warm body to lay on but leave me out of your war.” Fushimi pushed past him hard enough to make him stagger against the railing.

 

“Where the hell is this coming from?” Yata demanded, doing his best to keep up with Fushimi's long and uninjured legs. “Just last night you were all for going after that bike!”

 

Fushimi looked over his shoulder with such a glacial stare that it froze Yata in place. “I enjoyed the challenge. I'm not doing a damn thing to help HOMRA, I don't care how _important_ they are to you.”

 

Yata's heart plummeted. “Saru, I didn't mean it like-”

 

“Whatever. You know where to find me when you're not playing house with the convict club.”

 

Yata couldn't hope to act on it, not while he still stood there with his hand stupidly outstretched as Fushimi walked away. _What happened?_ They had told each other from the beginning that they each had their own priorities that had to come first. It wasn't like Yata ignored him in favor of the gang, and he could have just said no if he didn't want to help. Why did he care? Hell, Yata didn't even think he _could_ care. He would chalk it up to Fushimi not wanting to be inconvenienced when there was nothing in it for him but that wasn't indifference he'd seen just now. It was raw, visceral anger. Maybe even jealousy if he was reaching.

 

“Saruhiko,” he murmured, even though he was long gone from sight. In fact, he was sure that was the Audi's engine he heard starting up. “Come back,” he said to the empty space.

 

 

 

He made it all of two hours before he was walking into the Scepter building. He went straight to the fourth floor, twisting the hem of his worn out DMX shirt enough times that he wouldn't have been surprised to find a hole in it by the time he stepped off. His feelings were on a damn teeter-totter. Up went his disappointment that his only alternative to Mikoto's plan had failed; as it lowered, higher went the ache in his chest that deepened whenever he thought of Fushimi's retreating form at the State Park.

 

He stared at the door. It had seemed like a good idea when he left his apartment. The simple door with its silver letters loomed much higher than he remembered, and he had to steel himself before he knocked.

 

Silence. Maybe he wasn't home. Then, he heard footsteps from within that stopped on the other side, probably to check the peephole. He gave a sheepish wave (and hoped he was right that he was being looked at or he was going to feel really dumb). He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the knob turn.

 

“Mr. Yata, what an unexpected visitor,” Reisi said.

 

He scratched the back of his head under the edge of the beanie he had put on after his ride to the Park threw his hair into disarray. “Just Yata, would be cool. I was hoping you had a minute to talk.”

 

“Certainly, come in. Make yourself at home.”

 

Reisi stepped back, and Yata at least didn't have to worry about him rushing out to the hospital since he looked dressed for a day off in jeans and a t-shirt of his own. He couldn't help but notice the obvious tightness in the shoulders of his shirt. Seriously, where did these doctors find the time to stay in such good shape?

 

“This is a really nice place,” he said, adding his shoes to the lineup by the door.

 

“Thank you very much. Come, sit, I was just in the kitchen going over some paperwork.”

 

Yata called after him, “If you're busy I can come back another time.”

 

“Nonsense, come and keep an overworked man company. Tell me what's on your mind,” Reisi said from where Yata found him, sitting at a marble kitchen island.

 

Though he was starting to feel like he was at a shrink's office, Yata climbed onto the stool opposite him and dropped his hands in his lap. No way was he putting them on the counter, it was immaculate. Everything was.

 

“It's about Saruhiko.”

 

Reisi favored him with an understanding smile. “I could have guessed. He seemed even more displeased by the existence of the human race than usual when I passed him in the hallway earlier.”

 

“That's kinda my fault.” He was glad when Reisi looked back down at his papers so he didn't have those keen eyes on him when he started talking personal stuff. “He doesn't have a lot of friends, I didn't know who else to come to.”

 

“I may be the closest you get to someone who understands Fushimi, or endeavors to, at the very least.”

 

He went back to twisting his now wrinkled shirt. “I said something about my...friends being the most important thing to me and I think it upset him.”

 

“You can say the 'G' word,” Reisi said, peering at him over his glasses.

 

Yata gave a nervous chuckle. “Right. So, uh, he got angry when I said that about the gang and now I don't know what to do. I didn't even know he got angry with his, I don't know, _thing._ I can't take it back or I'd be lying, 'cause I did swear absolute fealty to HOMRA. But he's important, too.”

 

Reisi signed the bottom of a document. “Did he break up with you?”

 

“No, he said we could still see each other, just to leave him out of any gang stuff. Which I totally respect, but I know I hurt him, or bothered him or something. I never know what to call it with him. Feelings aren't really his thing so I have no idea where he stands.”

 

“He didn't force you to pick one of them. Bear in mind that when someone truly cares for your happiness, they'll never ask you choose unless one absolutely cannot coexist with the other,” Reisi said, flipping his last sheet of paper over and sitting his stack to the side. “I believe Fushimi cares for you, but for an erudite young man, he's entirely oblivious to matters such as this.”

 

“Do you think if I said I was sorry that he'd accept my apology?”

 

Reisi propped his chin on folded hands. The soft light from the fixture above the island brought out unique highlights in his hair that made it look less black than the color of a raven's feather. “There are some details that aren't my place to share with you but I believe I know more about Fushimi than you do-” okay, maybe Yata was a little envious of that “-and I can offer you my advice. You have made him aware that while he is important, he still has to accept HOMRA's significance in your life. Perhaps you should do the reverse as well. Make sure he knows that your relationship doesn't depend on your gang's approval.”

 

Yata brightened at that; telling Mikoto wasn't going to be a joyride, but after doing not one but two favors for the gang, he owed Fushimi some kinder treatment. Though, a thought occurred to him and his mood dropped right back down. “I don't think Saru is just gonna believe me if I tell him that. How am I supposed to get him around a bunch of people he doesn't like so I can, y'know, show him off?”

 

“I might could arrange something. The bar does reopen in two days.”

 

“How do you know that? People around Flushing have heard but that's not really your neck of the woods.”

 

“Ah. Well.” Reisi shifted, looked at the fridge like it was the most fascinating thing in the room. “I might have joined Suoh for lunch at the restaurant across the street from your bar today. He mentioned it.”

 

Yata's mouth fell open. “Holy shit, are you dating the Boss?”

 

“Oh, no. I find him despicable,” Reisi said pleasantly. “I just entertain myself with his company on occasion. However, I think I could pester Fushimi into coming out with me to a drinking venue that I won't specify until he arrives.”

 

“Man, you're the best. I owe you big time.”

 

Reisi smiled. “Don't turn up in my emergency room again and we can call it even.”

 

Yata hopped off the stool with a grin. “You got it!”

 

Reisi walked him to the door and he felt kinda bad that he had briefly disliked him just because he thought he was dating Fushimi. He was a cool dude. He bid Yata goodnight and a safe ride home, and Yata made for the elevator in a better mood than when he arrived. As he stood waiting for the doors to close, he looked down the hallway to the last door on the right. He almost held the doors and let impulse carry him to that familiar apartment. Luckily he managed, for once, to think more than five minutes ahead and knew even if he knocked and Fushimi answered, he would be at a loss for what to say. It was fine, though. He had it all worked out.

 

He tipped his head back against the elevator wall as he rode down. It was weird no longer than they had been together, how much being at odds with Fushimi bothered him. He wished Mikoto already knew; talking about his relationship with Fushimi would be a great opening to ask what the heck was going on between him and Doc. He couldn't believe a straight-laced guy like Reisi would get within a mile of Flushing after being involved in the shootout. Not that Yata thought the Boss would divulge anything to him. If Mikoto was going to talk to someone it would be Izumo or Tatara, and it was hard to mind his own business and not ask them if he'd said anything yet.

 

He stepped off on the ground floor and walked out into the warm evening. Maybe he shouldn't be so worried about things with Fushimi; fate seemed determined to bind the residents of the Scepter building with HOMRA one way or another. _But it's the 'another' that I worry about._ In the parking garage, he ran his hand over the symbol on his bike, the metallic finish on the dingy side from his neglect in cleaning it over the past couple weeks. He ran his thumb through the dust and a streak of red gleamed back at him. _As unlikely as it's starting to seem, I don't want one of these bonds to end it blood._

 

 

 

 

The time was in that odd cusp of either being too late or too early, but he was quite sure it had now been yesterday that Yata visited him. Mostly sure. Reisi dropped the file off at the nurse's station and went over ideas in his head as he made his way to the pediatric emergency center. He intended to keep his word to Yata but the plan hinging on Fushimi's agreement did not fill him with overwhelming confidence. Anything had to be better than whatever had possessed him to share a meal with Mikoto Suoh. Worse still, he had rather enjoyed it.

 

“Fushimi!” he boomed, some of the children in the waiting room giggling as he pretended to duck under a palm tree painted on the wall.

 

The young man was standing at the computer, showing something to the nurse doing intake. He looked up with about as much brightness as a hurricane. “Do you need something?”

 

The nurse gave him an affronted look for talking to a respected doctor that way but Reisi only laughed. “Come and join me for a break, I was about to have some water and rest my feet.”

 

“Have fun,” Fushimi said. He looked even more peeved when he turned his head down and most of his bangs fell out of his already precarious ponytail. Reisi didn't know if it was the hair elastic holding it in place or Fushimi himself that was closer to snapping.

 

“I'm sure Dr. Awashima would be glad to relieve you from your duties.”

 

“Tch. Fine. She's just going to make me go with you anyway.” He hit a couple more keys before coming around the desk.

 

Reisi tried not to look smug at his victory and expected that he failed, but he was pleased nonetheless as they left the pediatric ward and Fushimi followed him to the break room, a gloomy young man in his gloomy Eeyore scrubs. Quite a few people observed them as they passed by in the hallway. Many around their end of the hospital had taken notice of Reisi's favoritism for a particular student and not many of them cared for it. He thought this was less because they wanted his attention instead and more because they couldn't fathom liking the angry beanpole that was Saruhiko Fushimi.

 

Reisi couldn't answer them since he wondered the same thing on many occasions.

 

“So why the social call?” Fushimi asked, leaning against the counter in the break room. They had a cafeteria but Reisi wanted a little privacy.

 

Reisi took a bottle of water from the fridge and the plastic ring snapped in protest as he twisted the lid. “Perhaps I just wanted a few minutes with my dear friend.”

 

“Perhaps you could cut the bullshit. You know to leave me alone unless you need another set of hands in the operating room.”

 

“You seem even more short tempered than usual,” Reisi remarked, pretending he didn't know the reason and plastering an innocently concerned look on his face as he sat down.

 

Fushimi pushed himself away from the counter. “I won't be very good company then. I'll just go.”

 

“Saruhiko,” Reisi said, catching his wrist as he passed the table.

 

Fushimi snatched it away, eyes flashing. “Do _not_ call me that.”

 

He sighed and sat back in his seat. He knew Fushimi hated his first name, that the sound of it made his skin crawl but at least he had gotten his attention. “You need a break. Not just sitting in here but a break outside of the hospital. I'm going out Saturday, I would like for you to come with me.”

 

“Asking me on a date after all this time?”

 

“Fushimi, I greatly enjoy your company and I'm enamored with your intelligence, if nothing else, but I would equate the thought of having sex with you to fornicating with a live cactus.”

 

Fushimi huffed but it got him to drop into the chair on the other side of the table. “At least a cactus is alive. You probably just sit there with that creepy smile on your face and make stiff comments from time to time.”

 

“I am not stiff,” Reisi said before turning up the last of his water.

 

“Oh, please. I bet your idea of dirty talk is 'please insert your penis into my rectum at an increased speed. Yes, that is satisfactory. Carry on.'”

 

Reisi was disappointed in himself that he didn't have an immediate, withering comeback, but he was saved (if that was even the right word) by an hourglass shaped figure falling over him and a flat demand of, “What exactly are the two of you doing in here?”

 

“Seri!” he greeted, turning in his chair. “We were just leaving. Fushimi, you're coming with me, yes?”

 

Fushimi glared at him, looked up at Seri, and apparently chose him as the lesser of two evils. “I'm on my way back to pediatrics to finish my rounds, Dr. Awashima. Excuse me.”

 

Their hasty exit made her look at them with all the more suspicion, but Reisi knew she wouldn't interrogate him any further, lashed firmly down by her respect for him. Fushimi, though. He would have been another story if he had chosen to stay. Honestly Reisi would have been pleased if she let go of her almost reverent obedience toward him but the years had done nothing to change her attitude. She was just the same as she was back then.

 

“We got a bit derailed, but I'm serious. Take a night off to drink with a friend.” He flicked a sideways glance to Fushimi as they walked, and went for the jugular. “Unless of course Yata won't let you.”

 

“Let me?” Fushimi repeated, bristling.

 

Reisi gave him his most innocent smile. “I would hate to cause turmoil between the two of you.”

 

Fushimi scoffed. “He'll survive. I have to finish rounds, come by and give me details later.”

 

Reisi stood in the hallway long after Fushimi had disappeared under the archway into the pediatric emergency center, reveling in his victory. Fushimi had not only acquiesced but given him a standing invitation to visit his apartment that evening, where Reisi could gently needle him about how his relationship was going. His plan had worked and then some.

 

 

Most people were just getting up when he got home and went to bed, and he set one of the dozens of alarms saved to his phone to wake him in a reasonable amount of time. If he gave himself an extra thirty minutes, sue him; heart transplants were hell.

 

It didn't feel like eight hours had passed when he woke up, but he silenced his alarm and sat up into the darkness of his room. No matter how many years he had been a doctor, he never fully stopped being disoriented when he changed his sleep schedule from one day to the next. He pulled the chain on his lamp and didn't have to look to pick up his glasses from where they lay folded next to their cleaning cloth. His room melted into focus through the lenses, sharpening into crisp lines and pleasing symmetry. Perhaps that was why he indulged Suoh, he did have a very symmetrical face. It was pleasing to look at...because it was so symmetrical.

 

He sighed.  _Tell yourself another one, Munakata._

 

He had showered when he got home and gone to bed in one of his favorite sets of pajamas, a silk shirt and pants set in royal blue (his favorite being the matching long sleeved version but it wasn't cool enough for that one yet) that he deemed presentable enough for the short venture down the hallway. He brushed his hair, his teeth, and stepped into his bedroom slippers. His toes sunk euphorically into the memory foam.

 

Luckily neither of their neighbors were out in the hall to see his state of dress as he walked over to Fusimi's door. It was quite a long hallway, given the size of each apartment. He knocked just hard enough to be heard from the main room; if Fushimi was asleep, he wanted him to stay that way. The doorknob twisted, though, and Fushimi let him inside looking worse than Reisi had seen him in a couple weeks.

 

“Why don't you come over to my apartment instead,” he offered, lingering in the entryway. “I'm sure there is something in the fridge I could heat up.”

 

“I'm staying here,” Fushimi said, and trudged across the living room to fold himself down in front of the window.

 

Reisi didn't think he had ever gone further than the kitchen, but Fushimi wasn't following him with that wary gaze he had when he didn't want his space invaded, so he tentatively followed the boy to the other side of the spacious living room. Fushimi sat bare footed and cross legged, the city reflected on his glasses where he stared out at Manhattan. His gaze seemed to belong to someone who was looking for something and the slouch of his back suggested he wasn't finding it.

 

“What's on your mind?” Reisi asked, joining him from a couple feet away.

 

Fushimi clicked his tongue but didn't respond, just wound the drawstring of his running pants around his finger as his shoulders sunk lower.

 

Reisi dared to pry deeper. “Is everything alright with Yata?”

 

“Misaki's an idiot.”

 

“That's never troubled you before.”

 

The drawstring slipped from Fushimi's finger. His hair hung down to obscure most of his face, but Reisi could see his lips part in a sigh before he said, “He wants me to hack into a security system.”

 

Reisi was surprised by how little it had taken to get the truth, this must have really been bothering Fushimi for him to willingly open up (even if his idea of opening up was by about a centimeter). “That doesn't sound like anything beyond your abilities.”

 

“The security system belongs to the gang he's fighting. That _they're_ fighting,” he hissed.

 

He didn't care for the idea of Fushimi getting involved but he didn't have a leg to stand on where that was concerned. “Why don't you want to help him?”

 

“It's not him I don't want to help,” he said, a tic appearing in his jaw.

 

“He's a part of them. There is a part of himself reserved for you that HOMRA is not privy to but they're family to him. I know you don't like them, but if you think about it they've kept him alive this long.”

 

“ _We_ kept him alive. If he hadn't been close enough to Mount Sinai that night for them to bother themselves with bringing him to a proper medical facility, he would have bled out in some filthy warehouse just like the one he wants to get into now. I wouldn't have been there to put those stitches in his leg, we never...” He fisted his hands in the loose material bunched around his ankles. “….would have been.”

 

Reisi blinked. _Oh, my._

 

_Just what has Yata done to you?_

 

“Fushimi,” he said, and saw Fushimi's eyes flick toward him in their shared reflection, “that stubborn Hobbit is going to go put himself in danger with or without you. His bond with HOMRA runs far deeper than his regard for his own life. However, I do believe he cares for you. The only question is whether you're going to accept his ties to that gang and be there at the end of the day to patch him up, or you're not. You have to make that decision for yourself.”

 

“I want Misaki to leave them,” Fushimi said bitterly.

 

“You would have to give him a very compelling reason to do so.” He could tell by the stiffening of Fushimi's back that he knew what Reisi was talking about. “Until you can do that, you know your options.”

 

No words passed between them for awhile. Reisi observed the city, preferring his own view for its familiarity but appreciating this one nonetheless. The silence was absolute with the air conditioner running too quietly to notice, and the glass insulating sound too well for the images outside to be more than muted pantomimes. He waited patiently.

 

“So where did you want to go Saturday?” Fushimi asked, bringing their conversation to a dead end with a tone that made the night out sound like it would be a chore of immeasurable hassle.

 

_Ah, there's the one I know._

 

Reisi pushed his glasses up and smiled. “I think I have the perfect place.”

 

 


	17. Gratification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINALLY GOT IT DONE.  
> I'm sorry it took so long but writer's block had its whole foot in my ass. You can thank (and listen to if you want to get the vibe for the end of the chapter) The Civil Wars' cover of You Are My Sunshine for finally getting me in gear. Also it's been helpful to yell at my writer friends on Twitter about how much it sucks not being able to write. So, after much trying and complaining, here is this.  
> Slide into my Twitter DMs @xoTsundoku

The day after his conversation with Reisi passed in silence, and he finally realized the afternoon of the reopening that if their last conversation was anything to go on, Fushimi was probably waiting to hear from him. _You know where to find me._ He tapped out a quick _**Hey**_ text before he could reconsider and hit Send. He went back to polishing the weird decorative egg things Tatara had placed along the bar in preparation for the doors finally opening to the public again. He wiped the cloth over the swirly gold design on the ivory surface. He thought they looked odd but knowing Tatara, they cost an arm and a leg.

 

His phone dinged and he fumbled a little in his haste to sit the egg down and tap his screen to bring up the message. It was a mirror of his own, a reciprocated _**Hey**_ _._ He shouldn't have expected anything to go on. The ball was in his court, he guessed, but figuring out the right thing to say on the first try was a gamble. Did he apologize? Did he go on like nothing was wrong? He typed and erased three different messages before dropping his forehead on the bar. Talking to Fushimi right now was like trying not to step on a damned landmine.

 

_**Getting this place ready to reopen its gonna be great** , _he sent. Not wanting the conversation to focus too much on HOMRA, he sent another for good measure. _ **I hope ur having a good day**_

 

He went back to his task after a few minutes of silence. Izumo was in the back taking final inventory of the alcohol, so at least his prying eyes weren't watching Yata sulk. Honestly, though, he wouldn't have minded venting to someone. He still liked Fushimi a lot, like an inconvenient amount, but he didn't know why he had to be so _difficult._ He could have just talked to Yata about what was bothering him when they were at the Plaza instead of leaving him standing there feeling like a jackass.

 

_At least I had the idea to talk to Doc,_ he thought. If anybody might be able to help him out and get into that thick skull, surely it would be Fushimi's adoring teacher. He liked Fushimi to such an extent that it would be kinda creepy if Yata hadn't seen up close the almost fatherly brand of affection he held for him. It was nice to have one other person who didn't think Fushimi was a smart-mouthed, stuck up brat.

 

Well. Someone else who didn't mind, was more like it.

 

“Yata, I need one more favor today,” Izumo said as he emerged from the doorway between the two shelving units of bottles behind the bar.

 

He straightened up on the stool. “Of course!”

 

Izumo took a duffel bag from behind the bar and sat it between them. “I need you to make a delivery. Usually I'd just make 'em come here but I don't want to be trying to do this kind of business on our first night open again.”

 

“Oh...don't we open in another hour?” Yata asked, disappointment seeping into him as he lifted the heavy bag.

 

“Don't worry, we'll still be open long after you get back. You're really doing me a solid here.”

 

He looked out the open curtains into the gloomy day. It looked like the rain was on its way back. Unable to resist the heartfelt gratitude on Izumo's face, he sat the duffel bag down long enough to grab his jacket off the coat rack by the door and flip the red hood up. The rain itself didn't bother him but it was a raging pain in the ass to ride his bike with his hair dripping into his eyes. He shouldered the duffel bag and tried not to sound too petulant when he asked, “Where am I taking these?”

 

His phone dinged as he situated himself and the duffel bag on his bike. His mood sunk even lower at Fushimi's answer. _**My day is fine. Talk to you later.**_

He shoved his phone back into his pocket more forcefully than he had to, but damn, today sucked.

 

 

 

“We aren't supposed to leave for half an hour, what are you doing here?” Fushimi asked when he found Reisi at his door.

 

“I thought it best to make sure you weren't going to stand me up. As I said when we made these plans, I want to be there when the bar opens.”

 

“Tch. You sound like a whiny prom date.” Fushimi walked back into the apartment, leaving the door standing open. “Whatever. I'm ready, anyway.”

 

“You're going like that?” Reisi asked, sitting on the couch as Fushimi settled into his desk chair.

 

“Like what?”

 

Reisi eyed him critically. It wasn't that he looked bad. He just looked the same as he did any other day. There was little variety to his wardrobe, and tonight was no exception with his gray dress shirt and black jeans. No more than he cared to socialize and with such an absence of color, the other patrons might mistake him for a silent film from the nineteen thirties. Reisi's eyes completed their return trip from their venture down Fushimi's form and stared at him.

 

“I was thinking perhaps you could dress to...accentuate your features.”

 

Fushimi narrowed his eyes. “My boyfriend might be a moron but I'm not going out tonight to get fucked.”

 

“As well you shouldn't be, but trust me this once. Humor me if nothing else.” He was secretly pleased that Fushimi was well enough over his frustration with Yata that he didn't want to go seeking attention from anyone else to spite him, but he was trying to make the night go as smoothy as possible without letting on to the full extent of his plans.

 

“Fine, whatever. But don't expect me to go out in fishnets and combat boots.”

 

Reisi chuckled and got to his feet. “That would require you to own such things.”

 

Fushimi blinked, then slowly raised his headset to his ears and swiveled to face his computer.

 

Oh. Well then.

 

“There's a door to the closet in the bathroom,” Fushimi said, before giving his full attention to the game he had just loaded.

 

Still digesting a mental image that he couldn't decide if he found off-putting or simply fascinating, he let himself into the bathroom and opened the wider of the two doors, knowing their apartments were much the same and that the narrower one belonged to a linen closet. Motion activated lights came to life as he stepped inside. As he expected, it was the same dimensions as his own, if not less organized. At least it was tidy for the most part, so it didn't make his palms itch to arrange the shirts hanging up by color, or tuck in the items of clothing that poked out of the drawers. Much.

 

A quick exploration of the closet uncovered a decent assortment of formal ware, some running clothes, his scrubs (a collection that came nowhere close to rivaling Reisi's, thank you very much) and a drawer full of skinny jeans in colors that ranged within the narrow gap of dark blue to black. Hmph. He had been asked a favor, and he planned to deliver in spectacular fashion. He scanned the top shelves. There were neckties, a belt, and a heap of leather straps that he hoped was nothing more than suspenders. Most interesting, though, was the large plastic tote through which he could see leather and something that looked like mesh.

 

He hoped it didn't count as an invasion of privacy but Fushimi had not deemed anything in the closet off limits. He pulled the tote down and popped the handles. The lid was dusty, raising the hair on his arms unpleasantly, but he sat it to the side and tried not to think about it too much. He sat the tote on one of the sets of drawers and began looking through it. Fushimi's cap and gown were crammed into a corner with all the care Reisi would expect, and low and behold, a few articles of clothing that didn't look identical to each other.

 

“I suppose there's some black eyeliner in here somewhere,” he murmured to himself, holding up a pair of leather pants with a plethora of decorative zippers. As flattering as they would look, he liked Yata a bit too much to task him with getting those back _off_ of Fushimi.

 

There was plenty more in his little tote of wonders he could work with. Though, it was a shame Fushimi had already ruled them out, because he would have enjoyed the look on Yata's face if he saw Fushimi in the thigh high fishnets that he found in the bottom.

 

 

 

Yata frowned at the cars lining the sidewalk. He was glad it had such a good turnout, but he had really wanted to be there when they opened the doors. One vehicle he didn't see was an Audi R8. He checked his phone; the bar had opened over an hour ago, surely Fushimi would have been there already if he was going to come. Not that he had any reason to. He felt his shoulders sink as he pulled the heavy door open. It seemed selfish to be in such low spirits when Izumo had put so much into the grand reopening but he couldn't help but feel disappointed. Nothing about the night had gone as planned. He hadn't been in the kitchen with Rikio (where he just happened to have a good view of the door in case a particular person walked through it), though it looked like it wouldn't have mattered even if he was.

 

Standing inside the door, looking at the place packed and tables full of food that had been prepared just fine without his help, he felt painfully unnecessary. But he wasn't going to bring down the mood. The bar was thrumming with more energy than he'd ever seen it, so he put on his best smile as he tied his red jacket around his waist and threw his hand up to several lower ranking members of the gang that he didn't seen that often. He threw out greetings over the buzz of conversation and the music coming from Tatara's record player, a black vinyl rolling smoothly under the needle. It was all on his way to the bar. The least he could do was tell Izumo how great everything looked and get a drink to celebrate. Maybe with enough alcohol he would actually feel like he was celebrating and not lamenting the absence of his-

 

“Saruhiko?” he cried in shock.

 

His boyfriend – or he hoped that's still what he was – sat at the bar, throwing back shots with Izumo. He gaped as Fushimi coughed and pushed the shot glass aside to join the empty one next to him. Izumo had a matching pyramid of them on his side of the bar with three to Fushimi's two. Yata blinked but the hallucination didn't fade. _No fucking way._

 

“Uh, hey,” he said when he was close enough that he thought he could be heard.

 

Fushimi spun his stool toward him, his smirk too wide and eyes too lidded for Yata to think he was anywhere close to sober. “Mi-saki,” he drawled, dragging out the second half of his name in a way that usually would have pissed him off, but Fushimi's voice closed down on him like a vice pressing the tension out of his body.

 

“Having fun?” he asked, watching Izumo pour them another round, this time with a third shot for him.

 

“We're trying the new flavored vodkas I got in for tonight,” Izumo said.

 

Yata took the glass from him. “What's this one?”

 

“Birthday cake. Probably gonna be awful.”

 

“I'm sure I've been your guinea pig for worse,” Yata said, and knocked the liquor down his throat.

 

Fushimi followed suit, face twisting as he swallowed. It was only then that Yata recovered enough from his surprise at seeing him to _look_ at him. He held his empty shot glass loosely between his fingers and somehow kept from dropping it altogether as his brain tried to catch up with his eyes. It wasn't like Fushimi ever looked bad, the fucker was attractive even when he hadn't slept for two days, but the slashes of pale skin revealed by the rips in his black jeans were hitting Yata a lot harder than the drink. That was to say nothing of the long sleeved cobalt blue shirt that was totally freakin' backless save a few straps that crossed over the back to hold each side of it together. His mouth went dry as Fushimi leaned forward on the bar and he could see his spine curve, his shoulder blades shift.

 

It wasn't going to be a bullet that killed him, Yata realized. It was gonna be this stunning asshole.

 

But furthermore, what the hell was he doing there?

 

“Y'know, I was going to invite you tonight but you seemed, uh, busy,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

Fushimi hooked his foot around Yata's calf and pulled him forward. “I'm not busy now. I was starting to get bored...I've been here awhile,” he said, leaning up to purr against Yata's neck, “The bartender showed me the video you took at the warehouse.”

 

Izumo cleared his throat at the display and picked up a bottle of Gray Goose. “The bartender is going somewhere else.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Yata asked, trying to give the conversation his attention while Fushimi's nose brushed behind his ear. The music had stopped, probably for Tatara to change out records, letting him hear Fushimi's low timbre all too well for him to concentrate.

 

“Yeah,” Fushimi said, “JUNGLE is using a custom security system from the looks of the access panel.”

 

He heard the strum of an acoustic guitar from somewhere in the middle of the room. _I guess Tatara is providing the music himself now._ He was glad for the crowd, though, as it gave him hope that no one was paying them much attention. The way Fushimi clung to him was a little much for them to be in public but his body had melted too far into the other man's to stand a chance of putting some distance between them, and what little brainpower he had left was devoted to processing Fushimi's words. His eyes widened when they finally struck home. He did pull away then, far enough that he could actually look at Fushimi's face.

 

“The security system? But I thought you didn't-”

 

Fushimi hooked his fingers in the collar of Yata's white t-shirt and tugged him down. So much for distance. “Well, you were thinking, and that's a you problem. I also wasn't done.” He was more or less speaking against Yata's mouth, every word leaving behind the impression of a kiss. “The panel isn't built in such a way that it could house the necessary components or be pulling enough power to operate on its own, which means that – like with most security systems – it's connected to a server.”

 

Tatara was playing something familiar but Yata was now torn cleanly between the excitement bubbling in his chest and the desire to drag Fushimi up to Izumo's apartment and fuck the drunken haze right out of those eyes.

 

_Woah. Cool it, Misaki. He's trying to tell you important Stuff._

 

“Is a server good or bad?” he forced himself to ask with Fushimi's fingers warm against his chest where he held his shirt collar.

 

He more felt Fushimi smirk than saw it but there was no mistaking the curl of his lips when they hovered over Yata's own. “Oh, it's perfect. Do you want to know why?”

 

“Yes,” he all but gasped, willing his lower body not to create an embarrassing problem in front the his entire gang.

 

Fushimi was the one to pull back and look at him this time, but gone was the cold stare Yata knew so well. His eyes were wild blue fire and Yata was _burning._ He was barely even aware of the dozens of other patrons around them and wasn't there someone who didn't know they were together yet? He couldn't remember, didn't care.

 

“Because a server isn't tied to a specific piece of hardware. It has a signal.” At what Yata figured was a pretty blank look on his face, Fushimi said, “It can be _hacked._ ”

 

Yata grabbed his shoulders with a sudden rush of adrenaline. “Wait, so you...”

 

“I can get you inside.”

 

Tatara began singing, and of course it was that song _,_ and a giddy laugh escaped him. “And you will? You'll help?”

 

“I'll help you,” Fushimi said, tracing the part of Yata's tattoo exposed by his strained collar. “If it ends up helping your stupid gang, then whatever, but I'm only doing it for you.”

 

His stomach did a somersault that had nothing to do with the shot of vodka. He couldn't possibly find the words to respond with, and settled for sealing their lips together in a kiss with as much gratitude as he could convey through a simple touch. His hands were unsteady on Fushimi's shoulders as his boyfriend made a pleased albeit muffled sound. It was gonna happen. They were going to get JUNGLE, _with_ Fushimi _._ They were going to be fucking awesome together.

 

Someone cleared their throat and he pulled away, cheeks burning as he realized how poorly that kiss was suited for being in public. He readied an apology that dissolved on his lips when he saw who interrupted them.

 

“B-boss,” he said meekly. He might have stumbled further away just in case he had to incur Mikoto's wrath but he was very much trapped by Fushimi's legs.

 

Mikoto grimaced. “You got shit taste, kid.”

 

He didn't give either of them a chance to respond, just held an expectant hand over the bar in which Izumo immediately placed a sealed bottle of Johnny Walker Black. He threw his second man a wink. “I'm taking the good doctor somewhere a little more quiet, it's gettin' noisy in here.”

 

Yata stared after him in shock as he went back across the bar to his newly repaired couch where, unnoticed to Yata until that point, Reisi was sitting. An empty bottle (the whole bottle!) of Johnny Walker Black lay on its side on the table and the color in Reisi's face left no question of who helped Mikoto drink it. There wasn't anyone else around, though, and Mikoto wasn't known for sharing to begin with so Doc had to be plastered by now.

 

“He didn't...”

 

It was like Fushimi could read his mind. “There's a certain blood alcohol content at which you no longer care about anything, and I think he surpassed that awhile ago.”

 

Yata wasn't complaining. His attention was already being demanded (not as if he wouldn't give it willingly) by the almost six feet of inebriated, touchy-feely Saruhiko Fushimi that was adhered to him at the moment. He only spared one sliver of that attention to look over and ask, “Hey, Izumo, we can talk plans for JUNGLE tomorrow, right? I know the Boss said three days but he doesn't look like he's in any shape to hear Fushimi's rundown of the security system tonight.” _And he's about to leave with Reisi and I wouldn't stop him if my life depended on it – my life, which would probably be cut short for trying._

 

“Yeah, he was already here when I showed the video to Fushimi, he knows we might have an alternative to his...plan.” Izumo trailed off and his unlit cigarette fell from his lips.

 

Fushimi's fingers were doing very distracting things to his neck but the sudden lapse in composure surprised him enough to ask, “Izumo?”

 

“Hm. I see she decided to come after all,” Fushimi said, following Izumo's stare to the door.

 

Yata looked over and waved. He didn't think he could be heard from across the room but he still called out, “Hey, Seri!”

 

“You know her?” Izumo asked them.

 

He nodded, laying his arm around Fushimi's shoulders. “She's another doctor at Saru's hospital.”

 

“I want one.”

 

Izumo was gone the second Seri had seated herself at a small corner table and Yata couldn't help but wonder how much trouble HOMRA would be in if any rival gangs or law enforcement found out all they had to do was throw one of the doctors from Mount Sinai at any of the high ranking members to render them totally useless. Himself included, especially if Fushimi didn't stop doing whatever the _hell_ he was doing to the side of his neck.

 

“I want to go home,” Fushimi said, the light touch of his lips leaving behind goosebumps.

 

Yata thought that was a good idea, people were really starting to stare, but, “I don't think you should be driving.”

 

“I rode with Reisi. Take me home,” he breathed into Yata's ear.

 

How the _fuck_ was someone supposed to say no to that?

 

He actually had to drop a hand on the bar next to them in fear that he was going to melt right into a puddle and Fushimi was going to be taking his remains home in a bucket. “You don't want to ha- _ah_ , hang out or anything?” he asked, grip tightening when Fushimi's teeth closed on his earlobe.

 

Fushimi pushed him back far enough to stand up (though Yata noticed he wobbled on his feet a bit) and looked all the more demanding at his full height as he loomed over Yata to say, “I just want Misaki.”

 

“Oh. Right, yeah, we can, um...do that.” He looked around to tell someone he was leaving but the Boss was already gone with Reisi in tow and Izumo had an elbow leaned on Seri's table, saying something that earned him a small laugh from between pink, glossy lips.

 

Surprisingly strong fingers went into his belt loops and began pulling him forward. He swallowed his nerves as he followed Fushimi out the door, an easier feat when those long legs weren't as coordinated as usual. He didn't know why he was so nervous. They had done it before. Maybe it was the spontaneity of that night giving him less time to over think it, or his emotions were running high now from the unexpected sight of Fushimi after the way it had gone the last time they were together. He had believed Reisi when he said he would help but he didn't know he would get _this_ warm of a reception. Both embarrassed and excited at the same time, he didn't know if he wanted to curse vodka or build a shrine to it.

 

Fushimi pushed him against his bike and kissed him hard, holding his hips to steady him. Yata's shoe slid backward on the sidewalk from the force and he partially sat down to keep from falling. His hands went to Fushimi's hair, the outdoor lighting for the bar dim enough that he didn't feel quite as bad about kissing outside. Fushimi moaned against him when he grasped his hair just a little too hard and, knowing Fushimi, not nearly hard enough.

 

“Misaki,” he gasped, pulling their hips together and damn, had he always been this vocal?

 

A shrine. Definitely a shrine.

 

Yata had to use more strength than he really wanted to in pushing Fushimi off – not that Fushimi's excited little hum went unnoticed when he did – but if they didn't get somewhere private soon he was going to lose it. “My place is closer,” he said.

 

“I'm on call in the morning, I don't have a change of clothes,” Fushimi said, already throwing a leg over the back of his bike.

 

Damn. Thirty minute ride it was, then. He joined Fushimi on the bike and sped off toward the Scepter building. The high speed was even more exhilarating than usual with the night air on his skin and the warm arms around his waist. Fushimi traced distracting patterns on his abdomen but he was glad because it let him know Fushimi hadn't passed out and wasn't at a risk of falling off the back. He rolled the throttle back with the sole, driving purpose of getting Fushimi alone before one of them combusted.

 

They both survived the spiraling ride up the parking garage and the walk to the apartment that was made way longer than it had to be, since the presence of any flat surface seemed to mandate Yata being pushed into it and kissed stupid. It was hard to complain with Fushimi's tongue against the roof of his mouth and their bodies pressed flush together but he needed to get somewhere that they wouldn't have to stop. He couldn't be more relieved when the final thing he got shoved against was Fushimi's door. It opened behind him and he stumbled backward into the foyer but Fushimi's arm was around his waist, holding him up and forcing him inside faster at the same time. The motion sensors picked them up as soon as the door shut and lights came on above them as they stumbled, interlocked across the apartment.

 

Fushimi snatched the jacket off his waist and then Yata's back with connecting with something hard, he thought it might have been the kitchen island. He grabbed Fushimi's shirt and pulled it up in retaliation or he fucking _tried._ He growled in frustration as it just rolled up and got caught in those sexy but ridiculous straps across the back. He tried to pull it loose only to hear a couple stitches pop which was both infuriating and also gave him a better idea than wrestling with the damn thing any longer.

 

He grabbed the fabric at both shoulders and yanked them apart. He was met with a loud rip and a gasp from Fushimi as Yata jerked the torn remains of his shirt off. Fushimi made sure his shirt joined it immediately, though it slid up Yata's body with ease and didn't meet such a violent end. He shivered as the cold marble pressed into his back.

 

Fushimi wasted no time on the rest, dropping his cargo shorts and boxers with one swift movement, even supporting Yata's weight to pull his shoes off. It all happened so fast that Yata felt lightheaded when Fushimi was back against him, molded against his naked body and robbing him of his voice with a long, filthy kiss. He was grateful his cry was muffled when Fushimi's pants grazed his sensitive flesh.

 

He didn't get lucky enough for it to go unnoticed though, as Fushimi changed the angle of his hips and the seam of his jeans, stiff and taut across his erection, ground against Yata's arousal. It bordered on uncomfortable but it was far enough on the side of pleasure for Yata to shiver and precome to well up and spill onto the denim.

 

The kiss broke long enough for Fushimi to bring his fingers to his mouth, and Yata sucked them eagerly without thought. He liked how his tongue felt between the long digits and the heat in Fushimi's eyes when he looked up to see his face. It felt scandalous to look at him when he was stripped bare and already hard, getting harder just from having some part of Fushimi inside him, his fingers curling at the back of his tongue to test his gag reflex. He tilted his head to let them slide deeper just for the moan that shuddered past Fushimi's lips.

 

Fushimi took his hand away and Yata tensed even though he knew what was coming. He bit his lip as one of those wet fingers circled his entrance. Fushimi grabbed his thigh and hiked one leg up over his hip, opening him wider and sliding his clothed erection against Yata's cock. Yata's head fell back with a whimper and the tiny bit of relief was so fucking good he didn't notice the intrusion of Fushimi's long middle finger until it was all the way inside him and forcing another cry out of his throat.

 

“More,” he gasped, raising his head to hide it in Fushimi's chest.

 

Fushimi didn't hesitate to comply, though Yata was glad he added the second finger slowly despite his own eagerness. There was a fleeting burn before he could feel himself stretching around Fushimi's fingers. Then he curled them and _jesus_ if it wasn't for the roughness of the denim balancing out the stimulation on his cock, he might have came. Fushimi never took his fingers out, just kept moving them against that place that made black spots dance across his vision and his voice tumble out in muffled encouragements against Fushimi's hot skin.

 

“You're making my jeans wet,” Fushimi said in a shaky voice.

 

Humiliation swept over him and adding those lewd words to the mix just turned him on more, the sound undoubtedly adding to the mess he was making even as he cried, “D-don't just say that! It's not like – _hah,_ shit – n-not like I can help it.”

 

“I wasn't complaining,” Fushimi said. “How could I when I get to watch you fall apart just from having my fingers in you?”

 

They must have reached the end of what limited patience Fushimi seemed to possess that night, since that was all the teasing he got (thank god because Yata remembered all too well and with a renewed flush of embarrassment the effect Fushimi's voice had on him) before Fushimi eased his fingers out and kissed him again. His lips moved away and Yata followed. He continued to do that until he was walking forward, pursuing the kiss and Fushimi himself, letting the hands on his waist pull him along to wherever Fushimi wanted to go as long as they were there together.

 

He heard a door open and it caught his attention that there were no motion-lights coming on. He opened his eyes the next time they parted for breath, free to look around for the second it took Fushimi to reach behind them and close the door. The only illumination was from a floor lamp in the corner. The first thing he noticed – since he was looking for it, maybe – was the bed. He blinked at the large mattress with unmade, monochromatic linens tossed every which way. That was where Fushimi slept. He didn't know why such a small thing pleased him when the room was as devoid of anything personal as the rest of the apartment, but it did.

 

That was all the looking he got to do, as warm lips were on the nape of his neck and he was being urged forward. He turned to sit on the edge of the bed, felt his pulse flutter wildly as he grabbed the waistband of Fushimi's jeans. The zipper came down with relative ease and the button took some coaxing but it wasn't long before he pulled his jeans open and-

 

“You're not...wearing anything else,” he said at the unobstructed sight of Fushimi's cock, tucked into those tight confines. Fushimi only gave him a hum in response and the thought of him sitting at the bar with nothing under his jeans sent a pulse of heat straight to Yata's arousal. He bit his lip as he started working them down.

 

Fushimi's watched him until he finally took mercy on Yata's plight and slid his own hands into the back of his jeans. Eye level with Fushimi's waist, his throat went dry as Fushimi slid the material off his ass and slowly revealed the sharp lines of his hips. They made it to his knees before Yata gave in to the overwhelming need to _taste._

 

“Fuck, you're hot,” he said, sucking the soft patch of skin next to Fushimi's hipbone.

 

He relished the high pitched sound above him and having all of Fushimi's body on display as soon as he kicked his jeans and shoes off. He ran his hands down Fushimi's sides, following the dip in his lower back, curving away from his ass to skim down his thighs. Fushimi quivered slightly and damn if that didn't make him feel awesome. He paused when his fingers brushed over something especially soft, if not a little uneven. He opened his eyes to look at the thin stripes of almost translucent skin. They blended in so well that he didn't know if he would have noticed them if he hadn't felt them.

 

“Stretch marks,” he murmured, tracing the longest one that went about a third of the way down the side of Fushimi's thigh.

 

Fushimi swatted his hand away. “That's enough, let's get on with it. I didn't bring you in here so I could be stared at.”

 

Yata's protest was cut short by an arm around his waist, hauling him higher up on the bed. Fushimi laid across him and he arched up to feel more of their bodies pressed together. He couldn't help running his hands over his new found discovery and quietly enjoying the way Fushimi pouted at the attention. He didn't know why it was such a big deal, they were probably from whenever Fushimi suddenly went from being a normal sized person to an overgrown lamppost, but Fushimi seemed almost shy about them. It was cute.

 

_Cute...to think of this guy as cute. I really do have it bad._

 

Fushimi's sheets (and he thought part of the comforter was rumpled under his back) were soft like the ones at the hotel. The memory sent a pleasant flush through him, feeding into the heat that was already burning from the inside, creating an endless cycle of need and desire that he could only satiate with the man whose tongue seemed determined not to let a single inch of Yata's mouth go unexplored.

 

He only pulled away when he was wracked by sudden sensation. “ _Oh,_ oh shit,” Yata gasped, head falling back against the bed as Fushimi shifted and their cocks slid against each other. _I bet you did that on purpose._

 

Fushimi pushed himself up on his hands to look down at him. “I need to be inside you.”

 

“Yeah,” was all Yata could say, blinking against the few strands of hair that had fallen forward to tickle his face.

 

Fushimi leaned on one hand so he could reach past Yata's head, rifle around, and come back with a small bottle. It looked like balancing took considerable effort and Yata remembered he was probably still feeling the effects of the alcohol; he drank a lot in a short time, and the first time he saw Fushimi drink he didn't seem like he had much of a tolerance.

 

“Hey,” he said timidly, wrapping his fingers around Fushimi's on the bottle. “Let me?”

 

Fushimi's eyes widened slightly as Yata's hands went to his shoulders and turned him them so he was the one on his back. He didn't protest, though, just watched Yata straddle his waist and let him take the lube out of his hand. Yata swallowed back the nerves climbing into his throat as he realized how openly on display he was like this. It helped that Fushimi was too, though, sprawled beneath him with his hair fanned out on the pillow they had finally made their way up to.

 

He coated his fingers and set the bottle on the nightstand which took more effort than he expected since Fushimi's bed was freaking huge. He reached behind himself to grasp Fushimi's arousal. He only had one experience to go on but he felt prepared enough from earlier so he coated Fushimi's cock with lube, watching his eyelids flutter shut only to snap open as soon as Yata pushed back against him.

 

“Careful,” he said raggedly.

 

It did burn when the head of Fushimi's cock started opening him up but he was ready for it, even excited for it because he knew the incredible feeling that would come after. “I'm okay.”

 

He couldn't regret the lack of preparation when he could feel himself stretching inch by inch and watch Fushimi's face go slack in pleasure. A surprised moan slipped out as heat spread through him inside. It wasn't unlike when Fushimi came inside him, but Fushimi was still very much hard.

 

“Did it get warm?” Fushimi guessed, grazing a hand up Yata's side.

 

Yata rocked his hips down, the new sensation having soothed away what remained of the pain. “It...feels good.”

 

The next roll of his hips had Fushimi throwing his head back on the pillow with a beautiful, raspy noise that raced through Yata's blood like a drug. It made him addicted, made him desperate as he fell into a steady pace, every one of Fushimi's answering sounds as gratifying as a fix. He wasn't even going that fast but somehow it was perfect. With his hands splayed on Fushimi's chest for balance, it wasn't like their first night when they fell together like they might never get another chance. This felt like they had time; time that Yata wanted to take watching more and more of Fushimi's composure melt away.

 

Fushimi's hands found purchase on his thighs where the defined muscles clenched and coiled as he moved. His eyes had finally closed again, overwhelmed by feeling or so Yata liked to think, who for one couldn't tear himself away from the sight of Fushimi beneath him.

 

“God, Saru,” he choked out, somehow feeling even fuller when he was on top than he did his first time. He wanted to touch his neglected cock but he knew it would be over in no time if he did.

 

Fushimi raised a shaking hand to his face, traced the line of Yata's cheekbone with his thumb. “Misaki.”

 

He lowered himself to his forearms when fatigue worked into the rest of his arms from holding himself up. He was careful not to dig his elbows into Fushimi's chest but Fushimi seemed to have other ideas, grasping his hip until his movements slowed to a stop entirely. Yata's face had barely formed a questioning look before Fushimi's legs shifted behind him and his hips snapped up to bury himself inside Yata in one fluid movement. He struck the spot that had Yata seeing stars and his arms turned to jelly, leaving him a boneless pile against Fushimi's chest who seemed all too happy to support his weight as he thrust up into him. Yata couldn't hold back his cries as his prostate was hit over and over.

 

Fushimi's arms encircled his back and Yata tucked his face into his neck. As much as he missed the view from before, this was just as good with Fushimi clinging to him, chanting his name right next to Yata's ear like he was falling apart and that word was the only thing tenuously holding him together.

 

“ _Prope,_ ” Fushimi said, shuddering. “Misaki, please.”

 

The jolt of hearing a plea on Fushimi's lips held him captive for a long, blissful moment before he registered it as a request and he realized Fushimi's thrusts were becoming erratic. He had regained enough strength to at least match pace with his lower body, falling in synch so they were meeting halfway in a sweet, jarring collision of pleasure. It had Fushimi crying out even louder but the way he clutched Yata's back was still edged with disparity. _That's not what he needs._ He dragged his tongue up the side of Fushimi's neck and stopped at his rapid pulse, hesitating only for a second before he bit down _hard._

 

Fushimi's body seized underneath him and Yata felt the beginning of his own end approaching at the realization he made Fushimi come. He sat up on his knees, stroking himself once, twice before looking at the bright red mark, _his_ mark on Fushimi's neck and feeling his heat spilling into Yata's body sent him over the edge. He had to catch himself on one hand to keep from falling forward again. Fushimi's final thrusts against his prostate as he rode out his orgasm made Yata come that much harder, painting Fushimi's stomach and chest with his release.

 

“Saru,” he groaned, the waves of climax finally subsiding to rippling aftershocks.

 

He lowered himself down, heedless of the mess between them. They were both a wreck already and his muscles had no strength left to keep him upright. He felt Fushimi softening inside him, his arms going limp and falling away from his back, but he couldn't move. Not yet.

 

“Need to clean up,” Fushimi said.

 

Yata was more than a little pleased to hear him out of breath. He wasn't as happy, though, when Fushimi moved him up and to his side. “Just stay put, I got it,” he said, throwing an arm across Fushimi's chest to keep him down. With his arousal sated, he was surprised Fushimi hadn't passed out from all the drinking. He didn't have much confidence in Fushimi's equilibrium if he tried to stand.

 

He reluctantly crawled off the bed and staggered to the door. His legs didn't appreciate it much, either, but at least he managed to stay upright. Unlike his apartment on bad days, there were no clothes scattered around to trip on. He went down the hallway, around the corner in the living room and back into the kitchen. _It doesn't take this damn long to get around my apartment, either._ He guessed he could have grabbed a washcloth out of the bathroom but whatever. _I'll need these back, anyway,_ he reasoned, collecting his clothes and gun off the now cold tiles. His head spun when he stood back up. Yeah, the night had been intense.

 

He returned to the bedroom with paper towels in tow and got treated to the sight of Fushimi sprawled in the middle of the bed, his skin looking like it had some color for once against the gray sheets. Yata sat on the edge of the bed and set to cleaning him off since he looked like he was fifty percent awake at the most. It was kind of nice, taking care of him without any quips or tongue-clicking for his trouble. He threw the towels away in a trashcan full of crumpled paper and Post-It flags next to Fushimi's desk. It was smaller than the one in the living room, a laptop charging in the middle flanked by two stacks of nonfiction books that he could guess were medicine related without looking at the spines. The cup of highlighters on the upper shelf was the most colorful thing he'd seen in the apartment so far.

 

“Man, I bet it's late,” he said, awkwardly shifting his belongings in his arms so he could pull his shirt loose from the pile. He had to keep in mind this wasn't his place and Fushimi may not want him hanging around for as long as Fushimi did at his apartment last time.

 

“Mm,” Fushimi said. “You probably shouldn't drive,” he added, voice already thick with the growing haze of sleep.

 

Yata turned around. “Huh?”

 

Fushimi had moved to one side of the bed and lay facing away from him, the lamplight deepening the shadows in the curves down back until his body was obscured by the sheet he had pulled up to his waist. He addressed the wall to quietly say, “You were drinking tonight...maybe you should stay.”

 

“I only had-”

 

Yata brought himself up short and stared at the pointedly vacant side of the bed. He'd only had one shot and the adrenaline rush from finding out Fushimi was going to help against JUNGLE had been enough to sober him up but he found the words falling away. Fushimi was asking him to stay. _Fushimi_ was asking _him_ to stay. He swallowed to find his throat tight. His legs wobbled worse than they had after sex as he approached the bed. He stared at Fushimi's back as he dropped his clothes on top of his discarded jeans and shoes from earlier, as if he would sit bolt upright in realizing what he had just said and retract the offer. He didn't move at the light _ting_ of metal on wood as Yata put his gun on the nightstand or to the click of the lamp being switched off in the corner. Yata found his way back to the bed easily enough in the dark, no more furniture than there was in the room.

 

He slid under the sheet and blinked up at the dark ceiling. The blackout curtains left no way to see Fushimi but he was there. He was a foot away, breathing a little too loud and evenly for Yata to buy that he was asleep. Yata didn't know what to make of it all; Fushimi changing his mind about helping with JUNGLE and now this. He reached out to let his hand hover as close to where he thought Fushimi was without touching him.

 

Then there was pressure against his fingers, his arm, and hair tickling his neck. He jerked in surprise as Fushimi's arm settled over his waist, hand frozen in midair as Fushimi curled into his side, his exhalations warm puffs of air on Yata's chest. He gradually lowered his hand until it found the long hair spread across his shoulder.

 

Yata held him close, and slept.


	18. Grit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first I just need to say  
> SOMEONE MADE ART FOR THE LAST CHAPTER AND IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL ASHAJSSHAJA
> 
> http://amber-flicker.tumblr.com/post/178932731412/chapter-17-of-gunpowder
> 
> Thank you so much, I never get tired of looking at it! 
> 
> As for the chapter everyone please be gentle with my mistakes lol it's fuck o' clock in the morning and I really wanted to post this before work. Thank you all for your continued support, I just can't say how much I look forward to seeing your reviews, they truly make my day <3 You guys are the best!

_Ow._

 

Yata woke up to a dull throbbing in his leg and a warmth against his front. He got around pretty good for it to have only been about three weeks since he was shot but his body still liked to remind him when he overdid it. His face warmed at the thought of _how_ he exerted himself the night before. Images flashed behind his eyelids like retina burn; stumbling into the apartment, looking down at Fushimi on the bed, and maybe most memorable of all was the invitation to stay.

 

Oh, yeah. He stayed.

 

He opened his eyes as he realized he wasn't at home. The room was only slightly brighter than last night, a halo of light around the thick curtains the sole proof it was even daytime. He also realized the heat against his body came from Fushimi, his back to Yata's chest, his waist secured under Yata's arm even in sleep. Yata resisted the urge to press his lips against the pale skin so close. He would rather let Fushimi rest. He remembered Fushimi saying he was on call, but he didn't know when he was supposed to be there (or even what time it was without trying to reach his phone on the nightstand) nor did he plan on disturbing him to ask. The damn guy didn't sleep enough as it was. If he was late, someone could call him.

 

He stretched, toes scrunching up against the back of Fushimi's calf. As much as he wanted to savor the rare, quiet moment, his bladder was making a plea for him to get the hell out of bed. He reluctantly let go of Fushimi's waist and slid off the bed. It took way longer to walk around his bed to get to the side with the nightstand than it would his own, making him wonder why one person needed so much freaking bed.

 

He picked his phone up off the nightstand and left his gun where it lay next to Fushimi's glasses. Even his paranoid ass wasn't taking his 1911 to the bathroom. He wondered, leaving the bedroom, if Fushimi would care if he used his shower. Sweat and trace remains of other things had dried on his body and he could desperately use some hot water and soap. _I don't think he'd care. Look at this place, the water probably heats back up before you're done drying off._

 

The bathroom was unchanged from the only other time he'd gone in there, looking for a hairbrush. There still wasn't much clutter, not that he guessed there was a reason for any since there were so many drawers and cabinets. He closed the door softly, mindful of Fushimi sleeping right down the hall, and crossed the room to step into the shower. He stared up at the shower head. This bitch had _settings._ It took him a humiliating five minutes to realize all he had to do was twist the base to turn it on. Ever the considerate houseguest, he didn't change the settings even though whatever ungodly one Fushimi had it set to made it feel like Yata was going to get (more) holes blown through him by the water pressure.

 

He tilted his head back and made sure his hair was good and wet before he ran shampoo through it. He took care with rinsing it, worried he would splash water on the floor since this shower didn't have a curtain or a door but it was just tile that gave way to more tile with a drain in the center. The whole openness of the bathroom was weird but whatever. He hummed as water and suds ran down his back.

 

“Morning.”

 

“Fuck!” he shouted, dropping the conditioner.

 

Fushimi stepped in behind him with a quiet laugh. “Only you would be so surprised by the owner of this apartment walking into his own bathroom.”

 

“I just, you startled me,” Yata said, working hard to put words together at the sight of Fushimi's face without his glasses. Not that he didn't look great in them but it was the first time Yata had seen them absent. “I, uh, hope you don't mind me borrowing your shower.”

 

Putting conditioner in fell much lower on his list of priorities as Fushimi leaned him against the wall, his own hair falling under the spray, slicking the longest strands to his shoulders while rivulets of water streamed down his bangs and off the end of his nose. “I've been awake for five minutes and you're already naked, I don't have any objections,” Fushimi said, and Yata hoped he didn't see his throat move when he swallowed. He sounded _really_ good when he had just woken up.

 

Fushimi kissed him and he kissed back even as his body protested the thought of doing anything strenuous again. He couldn't resist, not with warm, wet lips on his and Fushimi's hands sliding down to his waist. He anchored his arms around Fushimi's neck.

 

“Shit,” he gasped as one of Fushimi's wandering hands went between his legs.

 

Fushimi gave him a slow stroke. “You're hard, too.”

 

“Of course I am, it's first thing in the morning. It h- _hah_ happens to everybody.” He bit his lip at the feeling of Fushimi's arousal against his leg. “You're the one who's already thinking about sex before breakfast.”

 

“You were wet and naked, I can hardly be blamed for this,” Fushimi said, rubbing lightly over his slit.

 

Yata shuddered. “I was already undressed from, y'know, last night. We, uh-”

 

“I remember,” Fushimi said. His hand felt good – dammit, everything always felt so good with him, but his leg was having none of it. He was going to say as much when Fushimi grabbed his thighs and picked him up against the wall of the shower. “I think I remember you liking this, too.”

 

Yata flushed. Fushimi had done the same thing the first night, and yeah, he had been into it. They had been kissing, though, not actually...he didn't expect Fushimi to be able to hold his weight for _that._ “Maybe we should dry off and do this in a bed,” he said, even as his legs contradicted him by wrapping around Fushimi's waist.

 

“No time, I have to get ready and go to the hospital. Are you good from last night?” Fushimi grabbed his jaw between two long fingers and forced him to meet his eyes. “Tell me if you're not.”

 

Yata swallowed. “I'm good.”

 

He was immediately claimed by Fushimi's tongue in his mouth, his own hands clutching the best they could onto wet shoulders. It did sting as he began opening on Fushimi's cock but the ravenous kisses were doing plenty to distract him. He urged Fushimi to move as soon as he was inside, going crazy already from seeing Fushimi so eager, and the display of strength that somehow still surprised him. He liked that he affected Fushimi, too. Maybe he didn't get flustered like Yata but he was thrusting into him, fast and needy, and _he_ made him that way.

 

Yata broke away from the kiss to latch on to his ear; if Fushimi was going to explore one of the little weaknesses he found their first time, Yata was going to give as good as he got. He sucked at one of the metal rings and got rewarded with a shocked, high pitched moan. He let go of Fushimi with one hand to reach between them, overcoming his embarrassment when the need for relief became too much, even it did feel oddly wrong to be touching his own cock while Fushimi fucked him, his knuckles dragging against Fushimi's stomach as he stroked himself. It wasn't like he wouldn't rather have Fushimi touch him but his hands were occupied with holding him up.

 

Fushimi changed his angle slightly and Yata keened as he hit the place inside him that made black spots dance across his vision. He could tell from the hair standing up on Fushimi's arms that the water hitting his back had gone cold but it didn't seem to be slowing him down, if he even noticed. He felt Fushimi's arms starting to shake, knew he was both at his physical limits and the limit of how much more he could take before he climaxed, and he was desperate to push him (god, the way Fushimi always pushed _him_ ) until he unraveled whether he was ready to or not. He let go of the earring he had been toying with only to take the one above it, at the top of Fushimi's ear, between his teeth and give it a sharp pull.

 

“Misa- _aah,_ fuck.” Fushimi twisted against the sensation but Yata slid the hand on his shoulder to the back of his head, holding him there, the metal clicking between his teeth as he assaulted the newfound sweet spot. Fushimi's sounds had his hand flying that much faster over his cock.

 

His voice was almost lost to pleasure but he let go of Fushimi's ear just enough to breathe, “Come on, Saruhiko,” before biting gently at the space between his piercings.

 

Fushimi made an entirely broken sound that had Yata spilling over his own fingers. He felt a shudder wrack Fushimi's body to mirror his own, and his breath stuttered even further out of time. _Are we..._ _at the same time_ _?_ It was overwhelmingly intimate, sharing the moment of his climax, knowing they were feeling the same thing together. Fushimi's body kept shaking after he had stopped throbbing inside Yata, and he gave Fushimi a light push.

 

“Heh, let me down, stupid,” he said, lowering his legs from Fushimi's waist.

 

Fushimi complied with a vague sound of acknowledgment and slid him down until his feet were back on the floor. He reached back to make an adjustment to the shower head before detaching it (Yata didn't even know it did that) and spraying them both down with water that was at least somewhat warm. He put it back on the wall and hastily started scrubbing shampoo into his hair, only to mutter curses when it tangled around his fingers. Yata had recovered enough from his jelly legs to step forward and knock his hands away.

 

“I got it,” he said, working the tangle apart with his fingers. “Geez, I don't know how you have any hair left if this is how you treat it.”

 

Fushimi sighed, tilting his head back into Yata's hands. “Shut up.”

 

Yata rinsed it, worked conditioner from the ends up to his roots, and maybe massaged his scalp for longer than he had to while he rinsed that out but dammit, Fushimi turned to putty when Yata messed with his hair. It was hard not to take advantage of it. He knew Fushimi was probably late as it was, though, so he only indulged himself briefly.

 

Fushimi turned the water off and grabbed the towel off the bar with a hand gesture toward the left, muttering about the linen closet. It took Yata two tries since the first door he opened went to an actual closet but the second one did house stacks of spare, fluffy white linens. He cinched a towel around his waist and shook his hair. Fushimi scowled at him, somehow already done drying his body and quickly running a brush through his hair (without hitting any snags, Yata noticed with pride). He spent a couple minutes with a fancy looking electric toothbrush and then disappeared into his closet.

 

“Hey, uh, can I ask a favor?” Yata called out, going over to the medicine cabinet since Fushimi seemed to be done at the sink and he wasn't at a risk of getting in his way. His muscle pains were making themselves known again now that the sex haze was wearing off and he was sure Fushimi had ibuprofen around somewhere.

 

He heard a couple drawers open and close, and Fushimi's disembodied voice answered, “What?”

 

Hm. Over the counter sleep aid that didn't look like it had ever been opened, caffeine tablets...he turned a prescription bottle in hopes it would just be souped up Tylenol. He squinted at the label. _Trilafon._ It kind of sounded like Tylenol. He read the small, but luckily bold printed directions under the drug name. _Take three times daily with food._ His thumb was covering the rest and Fushimi's voice behind him had him jumping and slamming the medicine cabinet shut before he could read any further. It wasn't like he was trying to invade his privacy, and he didn't know if those pills were for anything personal, anyway. They could be for high cholesterol for all he knew.

 

“What did you want?” Fushimi asked, dressed in his scrubs, holding a white pair of sneakers.

 

“Oh, right. I could probably stand to wash my clothes from last night. I was wondering if I could maybe, if it's cool, borrow something of yours.” His voice kept getting lower as he went and by the end it was a nearly incoherent mumble as he fiddled with the edge of his towel.

 

Fushimi eyed him warily, looking from him back to the medicine cabinet once before clicking his tongue. “I'll see if I have something you can wear. Hold on.”

 

“I don't want you to be running late because of me or-”

 

“I'm not,” Fushimi said over him from inside the closet. He returned with a pile of folded black cloth. “You're broader than I am so my scrubs are the only thing that might fit. Try these.”

 

“Thanks,” Yata said, taking them as Fushimi passed him to go out into the hallway. He really didn't want Fushimi to think he was staying behind to snoop so he pulled them on quick before following him, hopping on alternating feet to roll up the scrubs that were infuriatingly a few inches too long. Leave it to Fushimi to buy pants made specially for tall people.

 

He met Fushimi in the bedroom to pick up his gun as Fushimi was putting on his glasses. Fushimi still looked guarded, and it was bothering the hell out of him. Even if he had seen something bad it's not like it would change how he felt. And he felt...a lot.

 

“Saru,” he said, catching his wrist when he turned away. “Can I ask you something?”

 

Fushimi waited by way of agreement, leaving them in silence for a moment in the shadowy bedroom, like they were somehow protected there both from the sun and everything else that was going on outside.

 

Yata took his hand. “You told me you don't really...feel, like most people do, or you don't understand your feelings if you have them.”

 

“Yeah,” Fushimi said, shoulders set into a rigid line.

 

“What if I had feelings for you?” Yata blurted before he could change his mind. He saw Fushimi's face going blank, going into shutdown mode, and he grabbed his other hand, floundering to give an explanation before the word _feelings_ turned Fushimi into stone. “I mean, you already told me how things are for you and I've accepted it, I just wanted to know if it would make you uncomfortable if I had feelings for you...and told you about them.” _Like I just did. God, this conversation was pointless._

 

“They would just be words.” Fushimi didn't sound flat and despondent like Yata had feared, if anything he seemed solemn. Resigned. “They would be lovely, empty things like a renaissance vase, things I can appreciate, maybe even admire. But they would still just be...things.

 

“You would be better of saving them for something inanimate like that, really. At least then you wouldn't be disappointed when the object of your feelings didn't know how to return them.”

 

Yata didn't want him to take his silence as agreement, but his brain was churning to catch up both to what Fushimi had said, and the shock that Fushimi had never said this much, ever. He ran his thumb over the bone that protruded in Fushimi's wrist. _Wise guy over here probably knows what this bone is called._ Yata just called it the wrist knuckle.

 

“Feelings with expectations aren't real feelings. Whether or not I care about you doesn't depend on whether or not you feel the same way. It just _is._ I care about the you that you are now, not some...” He shook his head, trying to find a word. “...idea of you that's different. I don't want to change you, Saruhiko.”

 

“I can't-”

 

“It doesn't matter. You don't have to care. You just have to deal with the fact someone accepts you and all your bullshit, and they may just be empty words right now but I'll...I don't know. I'll find a way to tell you so you understand.”

 

Fushimi sighed, but he didn't look so far away anymore, like Yata had managed to clamor over the walls he was trying to put back up before he could finish. Yata was also pretty sure he saw the ghost of a blush on his face. “You're an idiot.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, you've mentioned that. Now get going before that cold woman comes to kill us both.”

 

“Cold woman? Dr. Awashima?” Fushimi asked, pulling the bedroom door shut behind them.

 

Yata looked guiltily at the pile of blue fabric next to the kitchen counter before shifting the clothes in his arms to unclip his keys from his pants. “Yeah, she's scary.”

 

“She has socks with bunnies on them.”

 

Yata spent the whole elevator ride and the walk to the parking garage processing that piece of information, and trying to decide if he believed it. He was still on the fence by the time they reached his bike and the Audi. “I know you're going to be tied up this afternoon, but about the warehouse...”

 

“I'll come by that sad dive bar once my call is over.”

 

Yata finished cramming his clothes under the seat of his bike and pointed at him. “The bar is not sad, you take that back!”

 

Fushimi swung his keys around his finger. “Sad and outdated and-”

 

His words ended with a wheeze and a huff of laughter as Yata's fist planted in his chest. He made his exit on that, went around to duck into the car and drowned out Yata's attempt to get the last word with the sound of the engine. Yata gave him the finger as he passed by but he couldn't fully keep the smile off his face. He stared after the Audi until it was nothing but a red reflection of taillights and then nothing at all. He unlocked his phone. He stared down at a blank entry on the memo pad, telling himself it didn't matter, telling himself to let it go. But, he reasoned, fingers moving quick and guiltily across the screen, if there was something wrong with Fushimi he needed to know so he could help him.

 

The single entry in his phone's memo pad stared back at him like an accusation.

 

_Trilafon._

 

 

 

Some amount of years ago, too many for him to recount without feeling a particular way about his age, Reisi had attended a show at the Sydney Opera House. It had been a grand affair. The orchestra was talented, something that he supposed went without saying since they were performing at such a place, their instruments filling the house to every wall and holding the patrons entranced. His ears had still been quite sensitive, then. Enjoyment had turned to a nagging anxiety when the swell of music began to press on his eardrums and swell in his skull. The individual sounds became one rhythmic pounding behind his eyes.

 

He awoke to the same feeling.

 

It was accompanied by nausea, and in seconds he diagnosed himself with a hangover. He wasn't sure he'd ever had one. He had been drunk before, but he didn't think he had ever indulged himself heavily enough to wake up and have his body rejecting his choices with quite so much prejudice.

 

“Mornin',” rumbled a low voice.

 

He raised his head and found Mikoto Suoh on the other side of the room, his back to Reisi but the plume of smoke rising over his shoulder telling him what he was doing in front of the window. Reisi clenched his fingers in sheets that were decidedly not his own.

 

“Suoh,” he said.

 

The room sharpened into focus once he reached over and retrieved his glasses from the nightstand. The sunlight fell across Mikoto's back, making the dragon seem as though it was ablaze, the illusion ruined only by the shrapnel of scars that didn't quite blend into the ink. He pushed himself up on his elbows. The blanket slid down from his chest which he found to be alarmingly bare. It didn't seem his poor choices had ended with the last couple shots of Johnny Walker. He finished the grueling process of sitting up, gathering the blanket over his lap. He didn't look up again; one glimpse of the messy apartment in his peripheral when he looked at Mikoto had been enough.

 

A flash of deep purple caught his eye, though, and the scattered laundry recaptured his gaze. The sight of his dress shirt from the night before brought with it the memory of calloused hands pushing it off his shoulders. He sighed. _Another one for my rapidly growing archive of questionable decisions._ If nothing else, Mikoto must have been a patient lover with preparation, as the only ache in his body came from his head. _Lover._ He immediately discarded the word in favor of choosing another later, one that was not so tender and suggested their actions would be repeated.

 

Mikoto crumpled his cigarette into the ashtray on the windowsill and turned toward him. “You should drink some water, you got wasted.”

 

“And just who was it that got me that way?”

 

“You,” Mikoto said without missing a beat. “You coulda stopped, no one was holding you down and pouring liquor down your throat.”

 

Reisi hummed. “I won't argue that.”

 

“I did learn something last night,” Mikoto said, tying the drawstring on his sweatpants as they tried to slide off his hips.

 

“Oh?” Reisi asked, unsure he would have minded if the pants had prevailed.

 

“Takes a whole damn bottle of whiskey to drag Reisi Munakata down from his high horse. You gotta loosen up more often.”

 

“All the way down to your bed, it would seem.”

 

Mikoto fished in the pocket of a pair of pants on the floor (Reisi's own, he noticed) and tossed him a slim box. He joined him on the bed with a new cigarette between his teeth. “You weren't complainin' last night.”

 

Reisi took one of the damn cancer sticks he had been trying to quit for years – and, as their presence in his pants might have suggested, failed to do – out of the pack. He eyed the long, pink welts on Mikoto's hips, but for the life of him he couldn't remember putting them there. His imagination supplied him with countless ideas of what might have elicited such an action but none of them rang true in his memory.

 

He steadied the cigarette between two fingers as Mikoto leaned in and held the end of his against it. A silent, smoky moment, and then paper began to curl away from the end of Reisi's cigarette. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. It filled his lungs as wonderfully and horribly as always. When he opened them, he found Mikoto next to him, sitting up against the wall. He watched with idle fascination as smoke curled away from his mouth to mingle with that which already wafted around them.

 

“You have quite a lot of battle scars, Suoh,” he said.

 

“I think we're on a first name basis at this point,” he said. The cherry of his cigarette glowed orange as he took another draw, then, “You're pretty scarred up for a doctor, yourself.”

 

“Hm. Unfortunately, I'm fuzzy on the details of how we reached that basis,” Reisi said, electing not to comment on what else he said.

 

Mikoto's breath warmed his ear. “I could refresh your memory if ya want.”

 

Reisi reached out without looking and pushed him back until he heard Mikoto's back hit the wall with a satisfying _thump._ “I'm sure you could. You see, the last thing I remember is my young understudy looking at a video with your barkeeper and discussing the best way to break into a building.”

 

“If one more person talks to me about that kid, I'm gonna fuckin' shoot myself.”

 

“Very well. I'll only ask that you keep me informed of when you put this little plan into motion.”

 

Mikoto reached past him to put his cigarette out, his shoulder hot against Reisi's chest. “The hell you want to know that for?”

 

“Because someone could get hurt and that someone could be a young man with no gang affiliations. I would rather be on standby than risk Fushimi bleeding out in some warehouse because HOMRA is too scared of being put in handcuffs to bring him to a hospital.”

 

Mikoto had returned to his side but he was close enough for Reisi to feel him tense up. “We got Yata to a hospital. We're gangsters, Reisi, not murderers.”

 

“Fushimi isn't one of yours. On the off chance that would influence your decision, I'm going to be there so you don't have to make that call.”

 

Mikoto grunted. “Yeah, yeah. I'll let you get home so you can fight with Yata over who gets to be president of Fushimi's fuckin' fanclub.”

 

“Actually, I have no pressing obligations today,” Reisi said, adding his cigarette to the overflowing ashtray.

 

“Change your mind about that refresher?”

 

He halted Mikoto with another swift hand to his chest. “No. I will take some breakfast, however.”

 

“You high maintenance-”

 

“Bacon, if you have it.”

 

Mikoto got up and went wandering across the apartment, cursing under his breath. He heard the fridge open and allowed himself a small smile as he got situated more comfortably against the pillows. He had no intention of suffering his hangover with an empty stomach.

 

 

 

Yata sat at the bar, watching the place fill up. They weren't open to the public for another couple of hours but it looked like everyone in HOMRA was going to show up like Izumo asked. Sometimes he forgot just how many of them there were. HOMRA dominated Flushing but it had members all over Queens, all bearing their mark, all ready to be assigned their roles in the fight against JUNGLE. Even Bando had shown up, a risky move as their inside member of the 109th Precinct. Yata gave him an especially enthusiastic wave, though. He hadn't forgotten that Bando was the one to handle the police report for his injury and probably had a lot to do with none of them getting pegged when Iwafune's body showed up.

 

He took a sip of the bourbon Izumo had left him with before he went outside to man the door. With his photographic memory, no one would get past him if they weren't part of HOMRA. Yata was pretty sure their strategist had a color coded filing cabinet instead of a brain in his head. He sighed and took a longer drink. All he had managed so far in the fight against JUNGLE was to end up sleeping with someone who could help them. Lucky damn break. For HOMRA's defense he had done fuck-all to help.

 

The roar of conversation dropped to curious murmurs around him. He knew that sound, or lack thereof. _Outsider._ It wasn't spoken, but it was said in the rigidly set forms around him, the hands that had started drifting to jackets and pants that concealed holsters. Yata spun on his stool to face the door. Fushimi stood just inside the entrance with all eyes on him. He stared back coldly, sending a chill down Yata's spine. HOMRA was imposing enough just as words on the street but assembled, they were nothing short of an army. Dozens of them with half drawn weapons and Fushimi looked at them like insects.

 

_Fear is another one of those things you don't understand, huh?_

 

Yata saw someone break away from the crowd, the blade of a butterfly knife flashing silver against the warm tones of the bar. “Hey,” he barked, and they froze.

 

Most of them shifted their imploring looks to him, and he extended an arm to his side. “He's with me.”

 

The tension raised the hair on the back of his neck. Many stared, disbelieving, and he curled his fingers in a beckoning motion. Shoes scuffled on the hardwood as HOMRA parted to make a path. Fushimi didn't meet any of their distrustful eyes as he walked between them. His lips curled up when he reached the bar.

 

“I didn't know they were so afraid of you,” he drawled, leaning into Yata's side and draping his arm around his neck.

 

Yata grasped his waist and slid his fingers into the ones on his shoulder. “They respect me, there's a difference.”

 

Chatter broke out again but this time he could pick out the hushed tones underneath, the disbelieving words-

 

“ _Wasn't he at the reopening?”_

 

“ _So that's Yatagarasu's boyfriend.”_

 

“ _I think the haughty bastard needs knocked down a few pegs-”_

 

“ _-you won't get within a foot of him with a weapon, you've seen Yata when he's pissed-”_

 

Izumo's voice cut across them, clear and commanding. “Alright, let's get this underway, people. We have a lot to discuss.”

 

Yata blew out a sigh of relief. His own eavesdropping was making his skin crawl. Was Fushimi right, was the rest of HOMRA afraid of him? He was glad his reputation kept them from trying to bother Fushimi but they talked about him like some kind of psycho.

 

“What is it?” Fushimi murmured next to his ear.

 

He looked over. “Huh?”

 

“You're grinding my knuckles into dust.”

 

“What...oh!” He relaxed his grip on Fushimi's hand that he hadn't realized had become so tight. “Sorry.”

 

Fushimi clicked his tongue. “I didn't ask if you were sorry, I asked what was wrong.”

 

Yata was saved from answering by Izumo gesturing to them. “We have someone assisting us with technological capabilities to rival that of JUNGLE. The reason I've asked you all here tonight isn't because everyone will be participating in our first move against JUNGLE's base,” he held up a hand to silence the protests bubbling up from the half-circle that had formed around him in front of the bar, “but because if this goes awry, I think JUNGLE will come for us with a ferocity the likes of which we haven't seen yet. Our intent is to gather information that will decide our next move.”

 

Anna stepped onto the bar to be seen with the help of Sukuna (who, Yata noticed bitterly, hadn't got near the hostile reception Fushimi did despite not having colors). “Our primary goal is to deal with Nagare, we don't wish to engage JUNGLE before we know his whereabouts if we don't have to. Enough HOMRA blood has been shed. We will fight hard, but first we must fight smart.”

 

Everyone stiffened as one at the sound of boots hitting the ground. Yata didn't have to look at the path opening in the crowd to know they belonged to the Boss, having finally rose from the couch. He strode up to the bar with Tatara at his side. It was Yata's turn to have his hand in pain as Fushimi clutched it fiercely, and he gave it the most reassuring squeeze he could in such a vice grip. It might not have been fear but Mikoto obviously put him ill at ease.

 

“From this point on, I want all of you ready,” Mikoto said, coat sweeping out around his ankles as he came to a stop in front of the bar. “As soon as I find out where that bastard Nagare is, we're hitting the fuckers with all we've got.” He shook a cigarette out of his pack with a sigh. “And Yata's punk ass boyfriend is gonna help so don't give him any trouble.”

 

A weighted silence followed his words. No one could argue with him (if they liked having their teeth _in_ their mouths) but there was no mistaking the wariness in the room. Yata was in one of getting on the damn bar with Anna and yelling for them to just spit it out already if they had a problem, when Rikio came out of the kitchen and raised his fist.

 

“No blood.”

 

Tatara threw up a manicured hand. “No bone.”

 

“No ash,” Anna and Sukuna said together.

 

Yata let go of the hand on his shoulder to raise his fist, as well. “No blood!”

 

“Fucking seriously with the chant,” Fushimi muttered.

 

Izumo held up his lighter, the flame throwing shadows on the wall of bottles behind him. “No bone.”

 

Mikoto reclined his elbows on the bar, clearly unwilling to take his cigarette out of his mouth long enough to join, but two voices cried, “No ash!” and Yata looked out to see Chitose and Dewa's joined hands above the crowd.

 

No voices were distinguishable after that as more and more chorused together. Yata grinned, finally letting himself relax against the skinny body next to him. He wasn't suicidal enough to mention it but even Fushimi didn't seem as stiff as before. He turned on his stool so he could slide his arms around Fushimi's waist and pull them together. _I'm sorry I made you a part of this,_ he thought as their lips met, _but_ _I'm_ _going to keep you safe._

 

 

The night gave way to the earliest hours of morning and only a few of them remained. Tatara took Anna home with Sukuna following them like some kind of lost puppy, and by the time Izumo locked up, only four of them remained. He sat on the couch with Mikoto and Yata pulled up chairs across from them for him and Fushimi. He could tell by the ever deepening slouch of Fushimi's shoulders that fatigue was wearing on him.

 

“We want to go in quietly, but if we have to leave bodies, we do,” Izumo said.

 

Mikoto stretched his arms along the back of the couch. “So how are you gonna get us in?”

 

“If they were just another gang with average technology, I would use proactive jamming. We transmit a constant signal that doesn't allow any other signals through their security system, including the ones that would tell them it had been tripped,” Fushimi said.

 

Izumo regarded him over the top of his glasses. “And why does that no longer work if they aren't average?”

 

“Because it's easy to detect. If the system wasn't closely monitored, or if they didn't know what to look for, we might could get away with it. But I'm sure the system gets regularly updated on its status based on the signal from the panel we saw by the door. If we jam that signal, they'll know something is wrong.”

 

Yata leaned his elbows on his knees. “Then what do we do?”

 

“Reactive bit jamming. In short, we choose which signals to interfere with. It's not as thorough but it will take them longer to notice.”

 

“Sounds pretty hard to do without being there,” Yata said.

 

“We can set up a communication system with Fushimi,” Izumo said. “Yata and I will go inside, be his eyes.”

 

“Either way, I won't be far. I'll have to be close enough to the warehouse to pick the signal up.”

 

Yata's head whipped to the side. “Woah, woah, you shouldn't be anywhere near that place when we do this.”

 

“He ain't got a choice,” Mikoto said. “And if having him close is the only way we get in to scope the place out, then that's what we do.”

 

“When will you be ready, Fushimi?” Izumo asked.

 

Yata caught his eyes, tried desperately to tell him he could still back out.

 

“Between the hospital and exams, I won't have time for this warehouse thing until at least Wednesday.”

 

“Wednesday it is,” Mikoto said, and pushed to his feet. “We'll get together here to clear up any last minute details.”

 

Izumo followed them to the door, the only one not leaving since his apartment was above the bar. Mikoto was the first to leave with a mumbled goodnight but Izumo caught Fushimi's shoulder before he could follow. “Hey.”

 

Fushimi shook his hand off. “What?”

 

“I just want you to know we've got your back. Colors or not, I'm gonna look out for you like you're one of us when this goes down.”

 

“Touching, really, but I don't know you well enough to care if you have my back. I'll leave that up to Misaki.”

 

He walked out onto the sidewalk and Yata followed with a warmth in his chest even as he threw Izumo an apologetic look on Fushimi's behalf. He wished Fushimi wouldn't be so rude to those Yata counted as his family but he couldn't help the swell of pride that Fushimi trusted in his promise to protect him. “Come on, I'll walk you to your car,” he said, taking Fushimi's hand.

 

It wasn't a long walk as the Audi sat parallel parked in front of Hao Chi but Yata stopped in front of the car with his good mood intact, as he knew it wouldn't be long before he saw Fushimi again. It never was. He leaned on the hood, the car looking more than a little out of place under the dingy glow of the streetlamp, standing out as stark and beautiful against the grittiness of Flushing as its owner.

 

“Thanks again,” he said, running his thumb across Fushimi's knuckles.

 

Fushimi clicked his tongue but still moved to stand between his knees, close enough for Yata to smell his shampoo and the faintest whiff of antiseptic clinging to his scrubs. “Quit thanking me. You're supposed to do stuff like this, right? When you're together with someone.”

 

“I'm glad.” Yata swallowed and looked down at their clasped hands. “That we're together, I mean.”

 

“I think I might be glad, too.”

 

Yata immediately looked up at that, but the questions that came to his lips went unasked as Fushimi kissed him into silence. It wasn't a long kiss but he heard the request all the same and didn't press him, no matter how much he wanted to hear him say it again. He was grinning when they separated, the light above them doing nothing to hide the color that had come over Fushimi's face and _fuck_ Yata was so, so far gone on him.

 

“Be careful driving, I know you're tired,” he said when Fushimi took out his keys.

 

Fushimi gave him a small hum of acknowledgment and the headlights flashed as he unlocked the car with the fob. “Goodnight, Misaki.”

 

Yata stepped onto the sidewalk. “Goodnight, Saru.”

 

All too soon the Audi was gone but that feeling stayed in his chest, spreading through him and around him like the memory of Fushimi's words could embrace him in his absence. He went to the street corner and pressed the button for the crosswalk. On the other side, he hesitated. His apartment was to the left, a short walk, but he found his feet carrying him right.

 

Two blocks later he stared up at the brightly lit front of the pharmacy that, like a lot of businesses in Flushing, was open twenty-four hours. An automated bell chimed as he went inside. He was glad to find himself as the only patron, knowing anyone looking at him would make him feel like he was doing something wrong, even more than he already did. He took out his phone as he cut down an aisle of cold medicine and approached the counter.

 

“Hey, Yata, don't see you in here often,” Chitose said.

 

He laughed nervously. “Yeah, I didn't expect to find myself here tonight, either. I had a question but I was hoping you could keep it between us that I asked.”

 

“Oho, does our Yata want to walk on the wild side? What is it that you want to try, is it acid? Ecstasy?” He leaned across the counter, eyes shadowed under the brim of his hat.

 

“No, none of that. I was just hoping you could tell me what this drug is used for and, uh, not ask why I want to know.”

 

Chitose held his hand out. “It's the least I can do after your friend patched up Dewa for us.”

 

Yata opened his memo pad and gave it to him.

 

“Trilafon, huh? Also known as Perphenazine.” He handed the phone back. “It's an anti-psychotic.”

 

 


	19. Get Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is I, your local trash writer with an incredibly late update. I'm so sorry. I write as often as I can but I'm married with a full time job and tbh I really enjoy sleeping. Thank you so much for sticking with the story and continuing to be patient with me. Whether it's reviews here or getting to talk to my readers who have hit me up on Twitter, nothing makes me happier than knowing people are still reading <3 You guys are the absolute best, ever.
> 
> Chapter tags/warnings: Nightmares, a continued shameless insertion of background music, all that good gay shit, action, drama, SOME ACTUAL PLOT HOT DAMN

“Uh, Yata, what are you doing?”

 

“Just a sec, I'm almost done.”

 

To his credit, Izumo waited patiently despite Yata using the computer that served as the cash register for the bar. More than likely because he was just reconciling the books and didn't have to keep a customer waiting. Yata could feel him hovering, though, knew that he was looking at the screen over his shoulder. He finished typing in his debit card number and completed the purchase, hoping the back of his neck wasn't visibly flushed.

 

“Looks nice,” Izumo commented, switching places with him so he could stand in front of the computer (throwing a bitter look at the cheap table he hadn't been able to replace with something more to his tastes yet) and pull up the sales reports.

 

Yata made himself busy emptying one of the ashtrays off the bar. “It's, uh, not for me.”

 

“I didn't assume it was.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Izumo chuckled but had enough mercy not to say anything else about it. Paper began shooting out of the printer under the bar, rows of numbers and percentages that were all jibberish to Yata but were just another foreign language Izumo was fluent in. He took them out as they printed so the tray wouldn't overflow into the floor. All of it looked the same until it spat out one last page that had Yata squinting curiously.

 

“What's this? Doesn't look like the blueprint for the bar,” he said, sitting down his stack of papers to better inspect the grainy image.

 

Izumo looked over. “Ah, Fushimi came through. He said he could get it.”

 

Yata waved the piece of paper at him. “Yeah but what _is_ it?”

 

“The blueprints for the warehouse. Fushimi said with it being in the city limits of College Point that there should be blueprints on file with the Queens County building inspector. I can't imagine how he got his hands on them but these will be a lot of help.”

 

“Y'know, he kind of scares me sometimes,” Yata said, looking at the blueprints.

 

Izumo chuckled. “Good thing he's on our side.”

 

Yata didn't bother mentioning that Fushimi was on _his_ side, not HOMRA's, even though Yata felt they were one and the same. He didn't want to give them any reason to question Fushimi's loyalty when everyone was already so far on edge. They had just started making plans the night before (or much earlier in the day, since they hadn't finished until about one in the morning) and he wasn't going to shake the fragile trust they had established.

 

_Trust._

 

Izumo took his papers to the office and put the computer to sleep, and Yata stared in his reflection in the now black screen. Anti-psychotic medication. He had barely slept after visiting Chitose, stuck in an endless loop of wondering why Fushimi needed it – and didn't take it if the full bottle was anything to go by – and then wallowing in guilt because he shouldn't know about the medication at all. _It's not like I found something like that on purpose._ Yeah, but he could have not taken the name of it down and he probably wouldn't have remembered what it was called to ask Chitose about it. _I just want to be able to help him._

 

 

 

The next few days went by too fast. He cooked Fushimi dinner at his apartment, he went to Fushimi's place a couple times with coffee. One night Fushimi fell asleep with his head on the coffee table. The other nights, though, all ended the same way on a couch or a bed where Yata could be pushed onto his back or duck his head between Fushimi's legs to draw out those sounds that haunted his dreams. The changes over those days were gradual. The closer it got to Wednesday, the more desperate their touches became, the longer he stayed with Fushimi before he went back to his own apartment.

 

Tuesday night, Fushimi laid to one side of the bed.

 

 

 

They didn't sleep through the night. Yata didn't know what time it was when he woke up, but there was no light showing around the curtains. He blinked into the darkness and tried to figure out why he was awake. It had taken awhile to fall asleep with thoughts of the next day weighing on his mind, but even he wasn't restless enough for them to wake him _back_ up.

 

“Get out,” Fushimi muttered, his back tense against Yata's chest.

 

Yata drowsily raised his head to look down at him. “What's wrong?”

 

“Leave me alone,” he said into the pillow.

 

Fushimi jerked suddenly, and though Yata couldn't make out much of his face in the shadows, he started to wonder if Fushimi was talking to him after all. He stayed propped on his elbow, waiting, and Fushimi kept repeating himself, his voice going higher, louder. He never turned to say it to Yata, though. _And he would, if he really wanted me to go. He'd boot my ass right off the bed._

 

“Saruhiko?” he said. Fushimi's repetitions fell off into hoarse whispers, and Yata moved the arm he had around his waist to shake his shoulder. “Hey, wake up.”

 

Fushimi immediately started thrashing. Yata caught his arm before it could swing back and connect with anything and pinned it, along with the other one against Fushimi's chest, both arms wrapped around him to keep them in place before one of them got hurt. Fushimi shoved back against him with considerable strength but he was still no match for the thickly corded muscle in Yata's arms.

 

“Saru, hey, you're fine,” he said as close to Fushimi's ear as he dared, with the risk of Fushimi throwing his head back and breaking his nose.

 

Fushimi made a wordless sound of protest and started trying to twist away again. It would have been easier to let him go but Yata wasn't sure he was coherent enough not to smother him with a pillow the second he was free, or worse, fall off the bed and hurt himself.

 

“Saruhiko!” he shouted.

 

He heard a sharp intake of breath and Fushimi went still.

 

“Misaki,” he said, voice cracking.

 

Yata relaxed his grip and felt Fushimi's arms fall limply to the bed. He ran his fingers through Fushimi's hair, pulling loose the damp strands that were matted to his nape. “It's okay, it was just a dream.”

 

“That man...was here.”

 

He'd heard that tone of voice before, one that seemed to be reserved for a single subject. “Your dad?”

 

“I guess I woke you up,” Fushimi said, his tone almost apologetic. His lack of acknowledgment to Yata's question was as good as an answer. He sighed. “Now you know why I don't bother trying to sleep.”

 

Yata blinked. “This happens a lot?”

 

“The night the bar reopened was the first time I've really been drunk. That was the first time in...years, probably, that I don't remember that man waking me up.” He turned on to his back and Yata could feel his eyes on him. “So, yeah. A lot.”

 

Yata reached for the shadowed contours of his face, found his cheek cold and tacky with cooling sweat. He could feel the faceless image of Fushimi's father warping in his mind, from the shitty dad he had pictured from the way Fushimi talked about him, to something more like a monster. He held his tongue for a few minutes until he finally had to ask, and when he did he asked quietly, in case Fushimi had fallen back asleep.

 

“Saru, what did he do to you?”

 

Fushimi's jaw tightened under his hand. Still awake, then.

 

“You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to,” Yata added. Maybe it was selfish to let his curiosity get the best of him (again) while Fushimi was still shaken from a nightmare but dammit he couldn't help if he didn't _know._

 

“He was fucked in the head. He always thought somebody was after him, said they would come for me, too. 'They'll take everything you love' he would tell me, he would taunt me with it. He destroyed everything I got attached to.”

 

The monotone of his voice worried Yata, the way he could talk about it so calmly. “If he was scared of these people doing that to you, why the fuck would he do the same thing?”

 

“To teach me. Everything he did, he said it was to teach me so I would be ready when they came.” Even though he sounded like he was reading out of a book, reciting a story about someone else's life, Yata had a feeling he didn't voice these things often.

 

“If he wanted you to be able to protect what you loved, there were a lot less fucked up ways to do it,” he said.

 

Fushimi turned on his side, hair sweeping over Yata's arm as he faced him. “He just didn't want me to have those feelings. It was easier that way.”

 

Every hair on Yata's body stood on end. The anger bubbling low in his stomach became churning nausea as the last holes in his knowledge of Fushimi's life were filled. _Your father...made you like this._ It was a good thing Fushimi was laying on his arm or he would have already been on his feet demanding to know where he could find that worthless piece of trash. He curled his arm around Fushimi's back, instead, pulled his shivering body forward.

 

“Thank you for telling me. I'm sorry your dad is such a piece of shit.”

 

“It's fine,” Fushimi said, tucking his face into Yata's neck. “The dreams don't bother me anymore, now that I've gotten used to them. But...Misaki.”

 

At the sound of his name Yata resisted the urge to protest, explain that no part of his upbringing or his nightmares were _fine_ in the slightest. “Yeah?”

 

“I'm glad...I guess. That you were here.”

 

The words were quiet, little more than a puff of breath against his skin, but Yata hung on every one of them. He swallowed back the emotion tightening his throat.

 

“Yeah. Me, too.”

 

 

 

Reisi tried the brass handle, found it locked. He had just raised his hand to knock when the door swung open.

 

“I've gotten quite fond of visiting this bar, but when you invited me here I did expect it to be open,” he said.

 

Mikoto stood back. “Izumo's over at Tatara's place.”

 

That didn't address Reisi's statement particularly well, but he entered all the same. The bar looked like it had closed awhile ago. The floors were clean, the chairs turned upside down on the tables. He started at hands sliding onto his shoulders.

 

“Relax, just takin' your coat,” Mikoto said.

 

“I didn't realize you were such a gentleman,” he replied, moving to let Mikoto to slide the heavy pea coat down his arms.

 

Mikoto huffed as he hung it next to the door. “Cooked ya breakfast, didn't I?”

 

“With no small amount of complaining.” He sat to one end of the couch where Mikoto had clearly been before he arrived, going by the half empty bottle of Johnny Walker sitting on the table in front of it. If the bottle had been full when he started, that at least explained the spontaneity of the late phone call inviting him to the bar.

 

Mikoto lowered himself down next to him. “We're goin' after the warehouse tomorrow. You said you wanted to know.”

 

“Very well. I'll go with you.”

 

Mikoto grunted but didn't have much else to say, likely since he'd had so little success the last time he argued this subject. He took a long drink straight from the bottle. Reisi pulled it away from him when he went for another and put it back on the table.

 

“You'll need a clear head tomorrow.”

 

He stretched his arms out along the back of the couch and tipped his head back. His coat was hanging next to Reisi's by the door, letting Reisi study the black flames on his forearm. They didn't have the same crisp, polished lines as the one tattoo covering his back. He ran his fingers over them with a low hum.

 

Mikoto cracked an eye open. “If you wanna touch me that bad, I can think of a better place to start.”

 

“You did invite me here for no apparent reason, you can hardly blame me for entertaining myself,” Reisi said, following a tendril of fire to its tip before dropping his hand.

 

Mikoto pushed up from the couch. “I don't know why I invited your stuffy ass, either.”

 

“Perhaps you were lonely.”

 

“I've got HOMRA, I ain't ever gonna be lonely.” He stopped in front of a wooden crate and started going through what looked like file folders. His shirt erred on the side of being too tight, and Reisi couldn't help but enjoy the way it stretched taut over Mikoto's shoulders. He was appealing to look at to be such a vile human being.

 

“You're their leader, you would never show weakness in front of them.”

 

Mikoto pulled something out of the crate. “What makes you think I'd show it in front of you?”

 

“Because my opinion doesn't matter to you, especially since it's already rather low.” He didn't say it with malice, but he knew enough of Mikoto Suoh to think better of sugar coating his words. The man was thick skulled but Reisi felt he was more adept at reading people than he let on.

 

Mikoto chuckled as he raised the lid on a wooden box that Reisi recognized as an old record player. “You sure come around a lot for somebody who doesn't like me.”

 

“Yes. I suppose I do.”

 

He wasn't vague on purpose, but he had as little of an answer for his behavior as Mikoto did. He seldom found himself with such a carnal interest in someone, let alone when their personality repelled him. Sometime between medical school and what happened overseas he had found himself lacking a need for companionship. Physical attraction to others was always fleeting and rarely strong enough to bother acting on. He watched Mikoto lower the needle on a sleek black vinyl. Realizing that was what the crate held, Reisi was impressed. It was quite a collection.

 

“I didn't know you cared so much for music,” he said as the slow strum of a guitar filled the room.

 

Mikoto sauntered back over, surprisingly graceful in his heavy Timberland boots, two splashes of bright red against the hardwood. “Those are Tatara's. The guitar, too,” he said, inclining his head toward an acoustic Gibson on a stand by the record player.

 

“That's an expensive instrument to leave sitting around. Surely he worries about it being stolen.”

 

“Everybody knows who that guitar belongs to, so they know what kind of hell would come down on them if they touched it.” Mikoto stopped in front of the couch and held out a hand. “C'mon.”

 

Reisi raised an eyebrow. “What's this?”

 

“You said you wanted to be entertained. Get up.”

 

He stared at the offered hand a moment longer before curiosity won out and he accepted it. Mikoto walked backwards, guiding him to the middle of the room. It was a decently sized space with all the chairs out of the way. Rather than letting it go, Mikoto raised their joined hands and put the other on Reisi's hip. Reisi tilted his head as a smooth voice began to croon over the music.

 

_The world was on fire and no one could save me but you_

 

“Mikoto Suoh, you are full of surprises,” he said, taking a step back as Mikoto stepped forward.

 

_It's strange what desire can make foolish people do_

 

Mikoto grasped his waist to pull them closer together. “Maybe that's why you keep comin' back.”

 

“Maybe,” he said, eyes falling to Mikoto's lips, curled into a smirk.

 

_I'd never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you_

 

_And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you_

 

The strands of hair that always fell on Mikoto's forehead brushed against Reisi's bangs when Mikoto leaned their foreheads together. He smelt of cigarettes and expensive whiskey and something all his own that Reisi's mind did not recall, but his body seemed to, raising his pulse as their feet glided back to their original position. He thought Mikoto might have held his hip before. Reisi distantly recalled a firmer grip, calloused fingers clutching his bare skin without the barrier of clothing.

 

Mikoto wasn't a half bad dancer for such a hoodlum. It was a surprisingly elegant use of the predatory grace he exuded; straightening his back from its usual slouch, forcing upon him a gentler use of his hands than to wield a weapon.

 

He chuckled as fingers slid under his chin and tilted away from them. “I'm not in the habit of kissing arsonists.”

 

_What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way_

 

_What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you_

 

Mikoto trailed them down his neck instead. “But you'll fuck one.”

 

“Hm. I suppose I have a passing interest in whatever remains of the man you were before prison, but I don't expect to meet him until your score with JUNGLE has been settled.” He let Mikoto trace the line of his collarbone exposed by the open folds of his shirt, enjoying the contact as much as he dared without testing his willpower.

 

_What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way_

 

_What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you_

 

Mikoto spun him slowly without letting him move any further away. “What makes you think that man was any different?”

 

“Because prison is like war. It changes people.”

 

Mikoto's closeness was beginning to scorch, his hand too close to the flame, the pleasant warmth starting to burn his flesh away with his inhibitions. He stepped back and Mikoto's fingers slipped away. He walked away like he would never return, knowing that he would. Not just the next day because Fushimi was involved. He felt Mikoto's eyes on his back as he shrugged into his coat. He would be back even when he didn't have an excuse, to see how close he could get to the fire without being consumed. He heard a lighter flick open behind him and then a bell chime as he pulled the door open.

 

_No, I don't want to fall in love_

 

 

 

Fushimi slept soundly the rest of the night, or seemed to. He was laying in the same place when Yata woke up. He sighed, disturbing a few long, black hairs just under his nose. It would have felt like the beginning of a good day. Fushimi had opened up to him and he counted that as a good sign for them. _I wonder if it's because he wanted to or because he feels the same way about today that I do, and thought it might be his last chance to share his burdens with someone._ Yata didn't mind either way. He wanted Fushimi to trust in the promise he made to keep him safe but he would hardly blame him for being nervous when he himself couldn't stop imagining countless ways their mission could go wrong. He traced his fingers down the ridges of Fushimi's spine. Tiny bumps rose in their wake, but Fushimi didn't stir.

 

He carefully unwrapped Fushimi from himself and went to the bathroom. Once his bladder was relieved, he went into the kitchen. There was as little food in the fridge as last time, and opening the freezer didn't reassure him since he didn't consider a couple of microwavable dinners _food._ He let the double doors fall shut with a grunt. It was a goddamn miracle Fushimi hadn't shriveled up and been blown away by the wind. Honestly, what did his body function on if not vitamins? Spite?

 

The cafe he brought Fushimi coffee from would probably have breakfast. Plus, he felt like waking Fushimi up with food and coffee was a safer option than waking him up with just food.

 

He grabbed enough of his clothes from where they lay scattered around the couch that he wouldn't be arrested for going out in public, and left the apartment. Manhattan loomed high on either side as he jogged across to the cafe. He wondered if this part of Manhattan was under Hakumai-to's control, too. It still baffled him that at least a piece of this thriving, wealthy city belonged to a mere three people. He scowled; one of them was that asshat with the sword. _Che. Let's see you pick a fight now that I'm off my crutches, tough guy._

 

No one paid him any mind as he stood in line, which was weird and nice all at the same time. People tended to give him a wide berth when his insignia was visible, or a fist bump as they passed by. He was a whole bridge and a river away from Flushing. Here, he was just a guy with a tattoo. No one knew his shirt fit loose to conceal the pistol at the small of his back, or that he leaned his weight on one leg because the other had a hole in it. He was _nobody_ and he kind of liked it.

 

Before he knew it, he was on his way back out the door with a rolled up paper bag and the largest coffee they would sell him. He felt a surge of guilt for his thoughts. HOMRA was his greatest pride, and nothing made him happier than to wear Mikoto's mark on his chest and be recognized as his greatest defender. It's not that he didn't want people to know who he was but the red flames inked onto his body had become a target.

 

He stared up at the Scepter apartment building. He had to get it together before that night, when they moved on JUNGLE's base.

 

_But I'm not doing this alone. I have HOMRA,_ he thought, opening the door to Fushimi's apartment. A tuft of black hair sticking up from the back of the couch told him there was no need in entering quietly. He pushed the door shut with his foot and went over to join him. Fushimi moved the textbook he had beside him to the coffee table and Yata's eyes widened at the flash of a familiar red sleeve. Fushimi didn't even look up, too busy circling a line in his notes, wearing only his briefs and Yata's hoodie.

 

Yata remembered to sit down, though he felt like he was going to float back up from the fluttering in his stomach.

 

_And I have you._

 

 

 

They got to the bar at dusk. He had questioned bringing the Audi since they needed to approach the warehouse quietly, but Fushimi made a point that his bike wasn't much quieter. He got out of the car and looked up at the bricks that made up HOMRA's unassuming fortress. It had taken a beating from the shootout with JUNGLE but if everything went according to plan then his home away from home would be safe from those green bastards. He held the door for Fushimi and followed him inside, feeling like he was leaving a more peaceful world out there on the sidewalk, even if he knew it was a false sense of security when JUNGLE was just waiting to tear them down.

 

“Reisi?” Fushimi said, stopping so abruptly that Yata ran into his back.

 

Yata peered around him and echoed, “Doc?”

 

Reisi Munakata sat next to Mikoto on the couch like he belonged there as much as anyone else, one ankle crossed over his knee and a serene smile on his face. “Should someone get injured tonight, I'll be here to help but my greatest hope is that my skills won't be needed.”

 

“Yata, I need to borrow you for a minute,” Izumo said, and nodded to the narrow stairs tucked at the end of the bar.

 

Yata put his hand on Fushimi's back. “Are you good to stay here with Doc?”

 

“Tch. I would be fine anyway.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. I'll probably just be a minute.”

 

He followed Izumo upstairs to his apartment. It was maybe the third or fourth time he had been up there since joining HOMRA but it was always a treat, not because it was especially lavish like Tatara's or felt like the same privilege as going to Mikoto's but it had a calming effect on him like it had taken on the same energy as its occupant.

 

Yata leaned against a panel of striped wallpaper yellowing with age. He doubted Izumo would ever replace anything in the apartment his dad left him until there was no other choice, and maybe not even then.

 

“So what's up?” he asked once Izumo closed the door.

 

“There's something I need to give you.”

 

He didn't offer any further explanation, just went over to the double row of bookcases stocked with everything from creased paperbacks to pristine leather bound volumes, and pulled a black case off the top. It looked like hard plastic. Yata's eyes widened as the emblem came into view. Memories rose up in the back of his mind, of a similar case being put in his hands when his age still ended with _teen._

 

“Misaki, do you remember our first trip to the shooting range?” Izumo asked, putting the case on the kitchen counter.

 

_He never uses my first name._ Yata went to stand on the other side. “Yeah. I went in a rookie and left being called HOMRA's vanguard, s'not something I'm ever gonna forget.”

 

Izumo took his glasses off, looking gaunt without the tinted shades to hide the shadows under his eyes. “I'd never seen anyone like you.”

 

“Heh. I don't think you called me up here just to make me blush.”

 

Izumo laughed but it rang hollow. He pushed the case across the counter.

 

Yata opened the two clips and raised the top. Inside was what he expected but much more beautiful and a lot more terrifying. He picked up the Beretta, all black save for a red slide. He turned it and watched the lights play on the crimson finish. It was an M9A3 but it felt just as natural in his hand as the 92. He ran his thumb along the edge of the grip, leather like his other one.

 

“This gun had to run you over a grand even before you had it customized,” he said.

 

Izumo didn't take his bait to lighten the mood. “I know it's hard on your body but if the time comes-”

 

“I'll use them. Don't worry.” He dropped his other hand to his leg. “I was fucked up after Iwafune shot me. Not just physically, it messed with my head. For awhile there I wanted to avoid conflict so it wouldn't happen again but then Dewa almost died and I remembered that I had a duty to protect HOMRA. I didn't think there was anything scarier than thinking I was gonna bleed out on dirty concrete until I saw him on that table.

 

“Hesitating is what got me a hole through my leg in the first place. I won't do it again.”

 

Izumo lowered his head in a short motion like he wanted to nod but decided against it. He looked down for a long moment before saying, with resignation, “Let's go get the bastards.”

 

Yata flipped the gun and put it next to his 92 with both grips facing out. He wiped what he knew had to be a solemn look off his face on the way back downstairs. Mikoto was at the center of the room when they returned with Tatara to his right and Anna on his left. His keys already dangled from his fingers.

 

Yata held out his arm, and Fushimi muttered what was likely a halfhearted attempt at goodbye to Reisi before shouldering his laptop case and crossing the room. He hooked his fingers into Yata's belt loops. “Let's go.”

 

 

 

They parked on the side of the road and walked the last quarter mile to the shopping center. Anna had come with Mikoto in his car, and Izumo brought Tatara in the Lexus. Better to have too many potential getaway cars than not enough. Fushimi opened his laptop on one arm and took a thumb drive out of his jeans pocket. His face glowed above the screen, his fingers on the keyboard unnervingly loud on the empty sidewalk. He looked up at the building, typed something in, and nodded to Tatara. “The security system is disabled.”

 

“This place is abandoned, why would there be an armed security system?” Yata asked softly, as though JUNGLE could somehow hear them from the warehouse further up the hill.

 

“Whoever owns it now will be maintaining one to protect it against squatters and vandals,” Izumo said.

 

Tatara crouched down and took two picks out of his lockpicking set. He hummed as he moved them around in the padlock. Yata heard something click, and Tatara pulled it open. He swapped out one of the picks and set to work on the door. The quiet was making Yata anxious, the silence so absolute that he could hear the tinny scrape of metal on metal as Tatara moved the tumblers inside the lock.

 

A louder _snick_ and Tatara smiled. “There it is.”

 

Yata entered first with a hand at his lower back. Mikoto followed him and went left as he went right, his own hand not straying far from the inside of his coat. There was enough light from the streetlamps still active in the parking lot for them to exchange a look and nod.

 

“Empty,” he called, even his low voice echoing in the barren room.

 

The rest followed except Anna who stuck her head in from outside. “I'm going to go get my things from the car and find the entrance to the roof,” she said.

 

“Yell if there's trouble,” Mikoto said.

 

She nodded and vanished from the doorway. Yata looked around, wondering what used to be there. No signs were left on the windows to give him an idea. Probably a loan company or some kind of office setting, going by the counter in the front and the empty space that lay behind it with plenty of outlets in the walls. Fushimi went to the other side of the counter and slid down to sit behind it. Yata followed and knelt next to him, putting his weight on his good leg. The last thing he needed was his thigh giving him hell later.

 

The lines of code on the screen didn't mean a damn thing to him but they were rapidly disappearing as Fushimi's fingers flew over the keyboard. In seconds, only one string of numbers remained. “That's their signal,” he said, and with a tap of the enter key, the screen blacked out.

 

A new but equally confusing screen opened and he handed Yata three small buds. “I'll give Anna and Tatara theirs, you take care of the rest. I've already isolated the signal so I don't jam it along with the security system.” He looked up at Yata. “Time for you to go.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Yata pulled him forward and kissed him hard. His breath hitched as Fushimi's thumb stroked over his cheekbone. “I'll talk to you as soon as we hook up to these things,” he said as they broke apart.

 

He got back to his feet and went over to Mikoto and Izumo by the door. It was everything he could do not to go back behind the counter and drag Fushimi far, far away from it all, protect him from JUNGLE and that man in his dreams.

 

“Now or never,” Izumo said.

 

Tatara unlocked the back door. “I'll have Anna her earpiece before you guys are inside. Go ahead.”

 

“Careful on the roof,” Izumo called after him.

 

Tatara stuck his head back in just long enough to stick his tongue out. “I'm a thief, you dummy. I've been on plenty of them.”

 

He disappeared back out of the doorway and Mikoto led them out the front. Yata looked over his shoulder but he couldn't see the light from Fushimi's laptop over the counter. He didn't like leaving him in there alone, no matter how short of a time that would be the case. _If anything happens, we'll hear,_ he reminded himself.

 

They made the short walk from the shopping center up to the warehouse. A couple of numbers had fallen from above the first bay door, leaving its address a mystery, but Yata bet it had been awhile since the place had seen any legitimate owners. There was graffiti on the outside too old to belong to JUNGLE. Besides, they had taken too much care in staying hidden to give themselves away. Yata pressed his back against the wall next to the narrow door used for people instead of shipments, the one he had seen the woman use the night Fushimi followed her there. Mikoto and Izumo split up to check around the sides for anyone keeping watch.

 

“Nobody outside,” Izumo said, low but audible through the earpiece. “Same plan, Mikoto?”

 

Mikoto came back around and stood on the opposite side of the door from Yata. “Yeah. Me and the kid are gonna go in, you stay out here if any of 'em run.”

 

The access panel suddenly flashed green and both their hands went to their weapons until they heard Fushimi say, “It's disarmed, go.”

 

Mikoto nodded to him and pulled the door open. Yata went in first, the 92 drawn, doing a quick sweep from left to right before gesturing forward with his gun. Mikoto was surprisingly quiet behind him and one long stride put him at Yata's left again. Yata didn't wait for a signal as they approached the doorway that opened up into the receiving bay, according to the blueprints. He swung right and Mikoto did the opposite.

 

Empty. The only thing in the room were rows of towering steel bunkers but the shelves were too widely spaced to provide cover. He started forward again. He wanted to mention how strange it was to have not ran into anyone yet but he knew his voice would echo under the high ceilings in the mostly desolate receiving bay. They cut down the center aisle of bunkers and stopped in the middle of the room. There was a balcony that ran the perimeter of the room with doors that probably went to old offices, again with widely spaced railing that made it easy to see there was nobody on the walkway.

 

Mikoto tapped his shoulder and pointed up with his gun. He had his other index finger raised. _Watch and wait._ Yata nodded. He did, and after a beat, saw a flash of green under one of the doors. He took out his phone, not quite trusting that his voice wouldn't carry up there with no other sound in the warehouse to mask it.

 

He sent a text to Fushimi. **Did u just do smth to a panel on the second floor?**

 

He had muted his phone on the way over but he saw the reply come up immediately.

 

_**No** _

 

He turned his phone to show Mikoto, and they made their way to the stairs on the far left of the room. There was no avoiding the _clang_ of their steps on the metal stairs. He couldn't see the door from their current position but he kept his eyes on the walkway and his ears open to any movement that wasn't their own.

 

“There's a camera at the top of the stairs, I can see you but I've killed its feed to their control panel,” Fushimi said.

 

Yata probably came close to giving away their location with how hard he jumped at having the silence broken. He gave the camera a thumbs up as they stepped onto the walkway. No sooner than they started toward the door, there was a clattering sound from below. He drew his gun and aimed between the bars in the railing. He couldn't see anyone, or what had made the sound, but there was no denying it had been made with the faint echo still fading from the bay.

 

Cigarettes and expensive cologne overwhelmed his senses as Mikoto leaned into his ear. “Go check it out, I'll see who's up here,” he said, just barely audible.

 

Yata didn't like the idea of splitting up but he didn't give the orders. He nodded, and the fur from the top of Mikoto's coat that had been brushing against his neck disappeared. He threw one last glance after the Boss before he went back the way they came. He crouched on the bottom step to look around. He couldn't do it for long, his right leg protesting immediately, but it gave him long enough to see the bay was empty as far as he could see from there.

 

“We've got movement outside,” Izumo said.

 

Yata didn't answer in case he was lucky enough for their visitor not to know his location yet. He started through the maze of bunkers to look for the source of the noise. There was only one more entrance to the receiving bay other than the stairs and the one he had entered from with Mikoto. He approached the service door, gun first. There was a scuffle to his left and he spun toward it, flicking his thumb across the back of the slide to disarm the safety.

 

The lights flashed. For a moment the warehouse was plunged into darkness, and the comm blasted static into his ear.

 

“Misaki,” Fushimi said when the connection returned with the lights. “They know you're there. They're targeting everything electronic, even their own systems to make sure no signals get through.

 

“We're going to lose connection soon. Be careful in there, they have the advantage.”

 

No longer seeing the need to protect his location, Yata asked, “But how did they know we were using these? You're operating them off-site.”

 

There was a strangled cry that Yata recognized in an instant and he heard Izumo's voice in tandem with his own: “Tatara?”

 

The lights went out for ten long seconds this time, and when Fushimi's voice came back over it was hard to make out over static and background noise. “They know we're here, too.”

 

Izumo's words from earlier came back and hit him hard. _We've got movement outside._

 

He heard a commotion on the balcony and the rapid popping of the MAC-10. His heart shuddered out of time as he realized they had been made from the start or close to it. The light under the door, the sound from below. They had split them up on purpose. He just knew it in his gut. There was something devastatingly loud in his ear. It was laden with static but he couldn't have mistaken it, the gunshots still ringing in his head even as the warehouse went black again and the comms went out.

 

“Saruhiko!” he cried, but there wasn't so much as a whisper from the bud in his ear. He felt his gun shaking in his hands. “T-Tatara? Anna?”

 

It was silent, and dark.

 

Doors came open above him on the balcony, and then the service door in front of him. A man's face glowed green from an illuminated pair of goggles. _They're using them to see in the dark._ Adrenaline steadied Yata's hands. _They planned this. But how did they know?_ There wasn't time for that. He pushed down his questions, and Tatara's distressed voice, and Fushimi telling him they had been found before-

 

No. He didn't know for sure what had happened down there.

 

What he did know was that they were in danger, or worse, and he was face to face with one of the filthy fucking colors responsible for that.

 

The man coming out of the service room was quick in reaching for the holster on his hip but his hand hadn't even made contact with a weapon before Yata let off two shots and took out both of his shoulders. He flipped the Beretta and struck the man in the temple. There were more masks appearing, a bullet hitting the wall right next to his head before the man he shot had fully collapsed to the ground.

 

The combined glow from their masks gave him just enough light to see. There was half a dozen of them closing in already and he heard the burst of fire from Mikoto's Glock on the balcony above. He shot the person directly in front of him while his other hand went to his back. Izumo's instincts were never wrong. He couldn't have known how terribly their plan would fall apart yet he had prepared Yata for that very thing. The feeling of the M9A3 in his left hand took him back to the shooting range when he had first raised two guns at the same time.

 

Izumo had taken his glasses off to stare at the paper target and the matching holes going down each side. Yata's arms had ached from the recoil of Izumo's 22 in one hand and the practice gun the range had loaned them in the other, but it was worth it to hear the awe in Izumo's voice when he said, “Ambidextrous.”

 

There was no time to look around and decide who to shoot first. He listened for the nearest footsteps, and pointed to either side. He pulled two triggers and blood splattered his face from the one standing closest to him. _They've got me in a corner, I have to get to better ground._ He made a path in them, the burn in his forearms negated by the hatred blazing much hotter in his chest. _Bastards, bastards, bastards,_ he thought until it had forced its way to his lips.

 

“Bastards,” he growled, spinning on his heel when he heard someone coming from the rows of bunkers. He took him out along with the one he saw approaching from the left. “If you fucking hurt them I swear I'll kill you all!”

 

He had been counting his rounds and crouched in an aisle of bunkers to reload. He stood up as soon as he locked the slides back in place. Distantly, he wondered how many of the ones he shot were dead rather than incapacitated. He realized he didn't care. More green masks were coming toward him and he held a gun out to either side, muscles on fire but his body steeled with resolve.

 

_Stay safe just a little longer, Sunshine. Anna. Tatara. I'm coming for you._


	20. Genesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5K VIEWS WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!  
> Thank you so much for supporting this horrifically long story lmao and I hope whatever holiday you are celebrating, it's wonderful!! Thanks for coming back!

Yata pressed his back against the end of a bunker. JUNGLE had done well hiding until the right moment despite their being so many of them. The next largest room to the receiving bay was the motor room that housed the breaker boxes and generators and the like. They must have been in there, he didn't remember another space large enough on the blueprints. He didn't know how many he had taken out but looking at the shell casings littered on the cement...there had been a lot.

 

He heard someone attempt to step quietly around the corner and pointed his gun to the left. The steps faltered and he pulled the trigger. He didn't bother looking up, even with the ringing in his ears from firing so many rounds in a confined space, there was no mistaking the sound of a man getting shot. He checked his guns. Five left in each and then he was out. They had come prepared, but loading themselves down with an arsenal's worth of ammunition hadn't been practical when it was still supposed to be a mission for intel.

 

“Yata,” Mikoto said above him.

 

He looked up to see Mikoto's coat whip out behind him as he leaped from the balcony railing and onto the top of the bunker Yata stood against. The steel bars vibrated against his back. Another green was right behind Mikoto, the glow of their mask illuminating the assault rifle in their arms.

 

“Get out of here, get back to the others,” Mikoto barked, not slowing even as he reached the end of the bunker.

 

Yata paled. “Boss!”

 

“I said go!”

 

A spray of ammunition from the assault rifle pelted the bunker but Yata was on the move and so was Mikoto, having jumped clear to the next one with a _CLANG_ of boots on metal that was still echoing when Yata reached the door. The short hallway blocked him from seeing the Boss when he looked back. He heard a series of shots that had to belong to the Glock, and the crash that followed had to be the green's body falling. He couldn't accept any other option. _Of course it wasn't the Boss, he wouldn't lose to these guys._ He held on to that, took strength from it as he pushed open the door to the outside. He would die if he got distracted now.

 

A shoe scuffed against pavement around the side of the building. He kept the M9A3 tucked against his chest and led with the 92 around the corner. The other person was even faster, as Yata found himself with a muzzle pressed squarely between his eyes before he could get a shot off.

 

It was a good thing he couldn't, though, since he immediately recognized the silver barrel. He knocked it aside with a deep sigh. “Mr. Kusanagi,” he said, briefly falling on the formalities he hadn't used since early in his time with HOMRA. It just felt like a comfort at the moment.

 

Izumo clapped his shoulder. “Damn, I'm glad to see you. Mikoto?”

 

“Inside.”

 

“Of course. Come on, I had them dropping down from the roof but I think they've divided their remaining forces between the inside and the shopping center. We have to get down there, I was about to go myself but better that we go together.”

 

Yata nodded and fell in step at his side. “There can't be many left inside, me and the Boss had a pretty big pile of bodies in there.”

 

Izumo nodded. It was only when they stepped out from under the shadow of the warehouse that Yata saw the rip in his blazer, the damp material clinging to his shoulder. “You're hurt.”

 

“It just grazed me, I'll be fine. I'm more worried about the others down there. Anna is the only fighter out of the three of them. I heard gunshots but I had my hands full here, I couldn't...I tried to-”

 

“Izumo,” Yata said, putting a hand on his back as they walked. “I'm scared, too. But have some faith in Anna, the Boss taught her everything he knows and she's got some talent that's all her. They're okay.” They had to be okay. Just like the sound of a body falling in the warehouse, he couldn't fathom any other possibility than his people, his family all coming out of this.

 

Then Fushimi, it wasn't even his fight. HOMRA had all come ready to bleed and die for the same cause but Fushimi was only there because Yata asked him to be. _God, if something happened to you..._ No. He wouldn't entertain that. Fushimi was fine, he had no choice but to be fine. He was a clever bastard, surely he had found somewhere to hide as soon as Yata lost connection with him. And Tatara had probably just screamed from fear. He wasn't hurt. No way.

 

He tightened his grip on his guns to keep them from slipping out of his sweating palms when he saw the shattered windows. No glass on the sidewalk, so they had been shot from the outside.

 

“The strategist of HOMRA...you'll be worth a lot of points.”

 

Yata spun toward the voice but a tall man already had already struck Izumo in his wounded shoulder, forcing him to let go of the gun as pain lanced his arm. He had a pistol trained on Izumo as closely as Yata had his own pointed at the man. Izumo began backing up and shook his head so minutely that anyone else would have thought it was a twitch of fear, but Yata knew what it meant. _Don't shoot._ After all, there was no telling which one of them could pull the trigger faster, and Izumo's life was too high a price to pay for making the wrong choice.

 

“I have to say, I wasn't expecting such a large welcome party,” Izumo said, taking a few more paces away from the building.

 

The man's beard stretched around a wide smile. “You're calm for somebody about to die.”

 

“Oh, I'm not about to die.” The streetlamps in the parking lot cast a sickly yellow glow across Izumo's face, making him look even more gaunt and making Yata fear how much blood he had lost, especially since the blow to his shoulder and set blood trickling down his arm. Izumo smiled at Yata and raised his hand. “I have faith.”

 

Izumo shoved Yata to the side and a weeping red hole opened up on the man's head. A look of mild confusion was immortalized on his face as he collapsed forward onto the ground. Yata followed Izumo's eyes to the roof where a cascade of white hair appeared, Anna lifting her head from behind the scope. Fuck, he had never been happier to see her tiny form, however little he could make it out from that distance.

 

“Let's get in there before we get slowed down again,” Izumo said, picking up his gun.

 

As much as he wanted to wrap Izumo's arm to slow the blood oozing out, the fact there were still people around the shopping center proved just how little time they had. It looked like Anna was alright but that could change at anytime with JUNGLE scurrying out from behind every corner like the goddamn sewer rats they were. He followed Izumo back across the parking lot, his shoes making an ill sounding squelch from the blood that had pooled underneath the man's body and spread below their feet. _At least it doesn't matter if we're quiet anymore._

 

His hand touched the door and nausea roiled in his stomach. He could tell by how hot the M9A3 felt against his lower back that his skin had gone cold and tacky from sweat. He pushed the door open and raised the 92 in front of him. The room was as silent as he'd left it earlier, though it was now littered with broken glass that twinkled and crunched under his feet like snow.

 

“Saruhiko? Tatara?” he called, stepping far enough into the room that Izumo could follow and close the door behind them.

 

The door to one of the offices in the back corner crashed open and a large man that was definitely not Fushimi or Tatara came stumbling out. Yata leveled his gun but another figure came out of the office with a wicked peal of laughter.

 

“Pain? You thought you could get me down with _pain_?” Fushimi's leg arced high off the ground and the man staggered back even further as Fushimi's foot connected with his throat. His mask illuminated Fushimi's joyful, deranged smile and the trail of blood coming from his hairline.

 

However trivial it seemed at the moment, Yata couldn't imagine getting his leg that high and he added the display to a list of things that concerned him about what kind of training his father must have put him through.

 

“Crazy...bastard,” the man choked out, his voice sounding garbled and wet.

 

Fushimi bent down, the counter briefly obscuring him from Yata's sight, and after a tinkle of shifting glass he stood back up. Yata's eyes widened as he realized what Fushimi must have picked up. _No, I can't let him do this._ Yata bolted around the counter to line up a clear shot at Fushimi's attacker. He heard Izumo saying he was going to look for Tatara and threw a hand up in acknowledgment.

 

_H_ _e's going to be a doctor. I can't let him_ _kill_ _someone_ _because of_ _me._

 

“I would usually go for a kneecap or something,” he said, and the large man whirled to face him. Yata took out the M9A3 and pulled the hammer down. “But you hurt Saruhiko.”

 

The mask shattered to pieces as he took a round to each of his eyes. He was dead on the first shot but the image of blood on Fushimi's skin was burning behind his eyelids and he unloaded the two Berettas into the man's chest. He dropped the empty magazines and reached numbly into his pockets. _Shit, that's right. I'm out._ He dropped his guns. Slowly, he went down with them. His hands were shaking something fierce from anger and fatigue both. And fear. He still hadn't seen Tatara.

 

“Misaki.”

 

He looked up to see the piece of glass fall from Fushimi's hand, and even in the darkness he was close enough to see his eyes wide behind his glasses. He stepped over the body to stand in front of Yata.

 

“I'm sorry you had to see me do that. I'm so sorry for all of this, I never wanted you in danger, I just-”

 

He sucked in a breath that took the rest of his words with it as Fushimi dropped to his knees and folded him into his arms. “Shut up. You kept your promise, after all.”

 

“But you got hurt,” he said, pulling back just far enough to look at the hair matted to the side of Fushimi's head. He ran his thumb over the blood that had dripped down to his cheek, cooling just enough to be sticky. “And now I can't even stay, I have to go up and-”

 

“Then what the fuck are you still doing here?”

 

Yata blinked but Fushimi didn't look upset, quite the opposite his expression softened as he stood and gave Yata a push. “There's no one else in the building and I haven't heard anything on the roof in awhile. Go check on the rest of your pathetic gang, I'm fine.”

 

Yata chuckled and took Fushimi's offered hand to get back on his feet. He didn't bother picking up his guns yet. Since he got reckless with the last of it, he didn't have any more ammunition for them, anyway. He wiped away the last of the blood on Fushimi's face with his sleeve.

 

“I'll be right back.”

 

Fushimi waved him off, and Yata's anxiety set back in as soon as he pushed through the door to the back of the building. The ladder mounted to the building about twenty feet away was more intimidating than it should have been. He went down to it and found even the first step up to be a trial, with his arms sore and his leg screaming at him the worst it had done since he was shot. It felt like hours before he pushed himself onto the roof.

 

He got to his feet and recognized the now too familiar feeling of blood around his shoes.

 

_Why up here?_

 

At the center of the pool was a crumpled form that he almost couldn't will himself to approach.

 

Izumo knelt at the edge of the roof, holding someone against his chest. The person who had bled out became irrelevant as Yata recognized the sandy colored hair under Izumo's chin. There was a bloody knife laying no more than a foot from them.

 

“It's okay, you're going to be okay,” Izumo said, voice strained from trying to sound calm.

 

Anna sat next to her rifle with her knees pulled to her chest, watching with watery eyes.

 

“Tatara?” Yata said. He forced himself forward. “Hey, T-Tatara.”

 

The limp hands on Izumo's shoulders clenched and a cry split the air that made Yata go cold. “I didn't mean to!” Tatara wailed. His words began to come as gasps between sobs into Izumo's chest. “I didn't…I didn't mean to kill him.”

 

“He was just trying to get the knife away from him,” Anna said, looking at the body Yata had first noticed.

 

Yata knelt down and rested his hand on Tatara's shoulder. “Tats, he was trying to kill you.”

 

“He was a person just like me, which side he was on doesn't make him any less human!” Tatara cried. “And I took his life. I took another person's life.”

 

Yata shared a look with Izumo, who shook his head. _Leave it for now._ Yata backed away and dropped down next to Anna. The relief he felt at finding Tatara alive was a small comfort at the sight of his suffering. Tatara wanted to be part of HOMRA's violence least of them all, he just wanted to be with his friends. Yata would have given anything to take away what he was feeling. He had walked into the warehouse knowing he might leave a killer and he had accepted it. Tatara...he probably would have forfeit his own life to keep from taking another.

 

“Let's get down from here,” Izumo said and stood, gently pulling Tatara up with him.

 

Anna folded the bipod on her rifle and pulled the strap over her head, letting the AXMC sit between her shoulder blades. Yata always thought the weapon had always looked wrong on her delicate body but just like anything else, she carried it with grace.

 

Mikoto was on the sidewalk when he climbed down. He crushed his cigarette out under his boot. “Seems like whatever they did to the electronics and our phones has been workin' in our favor for people nearby not bein' able to call the cops, but they'll show up eventually. We need to split while we can. And Izumo,” he said, looking back as Izumo stepped off the ladder. “Take Anna with you, Tats is gonna ride with me.”

 

“Understood.”

 

Yata jumped as a door came open but it was just Fushimi, coming to join them. He slid his arm around Fushimi's waist. He didn't know who was leaning on who at that point, or if it mattered.

 

“It's been a long night,” Mikoto said, taking his keys out of his coat. “Everybody just...go home. We'll meet up tomorrow.”

 

There wasn't much else to say as they walked down to where they'd left their cars. Izumo had them all check under their seats for explosives (which Yata didn't think was JUNGLE's style but there wasn't much left that night that could have surprised him) and said they would get all their vehicles scanned for tracking devices the next day, just in case. Yata stared after Tatara as he lowered himself into the Mustang; his eyes were red and puffy, and Yata hoped it was only because he was looking from a distance that they also seemed terribly empty.

 

He sunk into the passenger's side so much as the rigid bucket seats would allow. Even Fushimi got behind the wheel with less grace than usual.

 

“Let's go back to your place,” he said, starting the car.

 

Yata put his hand on the console. “Sure, why mine?”

 

Fushimi took it, as sweaty and filthy as it was, his fingers cold between Yata's. He made an odd sound that was something like a giggle. “There's a lot of lines on the road.”

 

“Saru, do you have a concussion?”

 

“Probably.”

 

He might have squeezed Fushimi's hand a little harder than he meant to. “You should let Doc check you out, it's dangerous to go to sleep if you have a concussion.”

 

“If I haven't passed out by now then it's minor, if I have it at all. But you know, Misaki.”

 

Yata looked at his profile. “Yeah?”

 

“All that knowledge you have about concussions is really an inspiration for me to learn more about them. Maybe I should go to medical school or something.”

 

Yata groaned and dropped his head against the back of the seat. “Shut up.”

 

He was glad they were making the much shorter drive to his place rather than Fushimi's, since he really didn't feel like making idle conversation but he didn't want to let the silence stretch on for too long and risk Fushimi passing out on him for real, whether it be from a concussion or just exhaustion. He told Fushimi where to turn in for the resident parking behind the building and let out a relieved sigh when the Audi was in park. Somehow they had stayed in their lane (mostly) but it didn't make the ride any less nerve wracking when he knew Fushimi could hardly see straight.

 

There was a yellow slip of paper on his apartment door that he snatched before Fushimi saw it. He could go down and pick up his package in the morning, then. He shoved the paper into his pants pocket, looking forward to it even though he couldn't muster any true excitement after the night they'd had. He punched his code into the alarm system and flipped the light on. Fushimi closed the door behind them, standing in a decent amount of light for the first time since they left the bar earlier that night (and god it felt like so much longer ago than a couple of hours). Having such a clear view of him brought Yata's guilt back tenfold.

 

Yata took his hand. “C'mon, let's get cleaned up.”

 

Fushimi mumbled what could have been assent or protest, but Yata couldn't understand him. It couldn't have been anything too negative since Fushimi was following him without having to be dragged. That was good, too, since Yata's leg seemed fully prepared to give out at a moment's notice in long overdue payback for the way he had mistreated it.

 

He laid his guns on the bathroom counter and began pulling Fushimi's shirt over his head despite him muttering about how he could do it himself. His heart dropped to the floor right along with that blank tank top. Fushimi's left side was littered with bruises, in addition to the state of his head that Yata had finally seen back in the living room, his hair clumped and matted to his temple. He trailed his fingers as close to Fushimi's hairline as he dared.

 

“What did he do?” he ground out.

 

Fushimi removed his hand, pushed it back down to Yata's side so he could start working his jeans down his legs. “It doesn't matter. Having a mental image of what he did is just going to make you angrier at someone you already killed.”

 

Yata stripped out of his own clothes and set the taps running. He left it alone, if only for a couple minutes while he adjusted the water temperature and turned the shower on. Once they were standing under the spray with rust colored water coursing down their bodies, he asked again.

 

Flatly, Fushimi said, “He grabbed my hair and bashed my head against the edge of a desk. Once I fell backward he started kicking me. None of my ribs are broken, I already checked,” he added, like that would make Yata breathe a sigh of relief and say _oh thank goodness, as long as that's all._

 

The thought made him ill down to his core but he knew Fushimi didn't want to hear any more apologies so he settled for picking up the shampoo and saying, “Turn around.”

 

He was careful to avoid the area that wasn't as easy to identify with most of the blood rinsed away, so he gave it a wide clearance to be safe. They made quick work of getting clean. Yata didn't have as fancy of linens as Fushimi was used to but he at least made sure to give him the towel without a hole in it. _Like he'd care...his boyfriend has a hole in him, what the fuck would he care about a towel?_ He patted his right leg dry so he didn't irritate his own healing wound any further and threw his towel back on the bar.

 

Fushimi was the first one out of the bathroom and made a beeline for the stairs, his towel still tied loosely around his hips. Yata stayed behind him but far enough back that he could try to steady him if he started to waver. He made it to the top fine, though, and fell unceremoniously onto Yata's bed. The light downstairs didn't bother him enough to go back down and turn it off. At least it let him see to load the 92 before laying it on the nightstand.

 

“Make sure you don't sleep on your left side,” Yata said, easing the towel from around Fushimi's waist.

 

Fushimi smirked at him and adjusted so they could get under the blanket, their skin just damp enough from the shower to be chilled. “Are you going to hold me down to make sure?”

 

“Heh. If I thought I had the energy, I just might try.”

 

Fushimi snorted. “Tell me about it. I don't think I could get hard if I wanted to, and that's saying something since there have been two Misakis all night.”

 

“We really have to get you looked at tomorrow.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

Yata closed his eyes. He thought Fushimi had changed his mind when he felt him on top of him, but Fushimi just laid to his other side. He would usually insist on being on the outside in case he needed to get up in a hurry but he _had_ told Fushimi to stay off his injured side and if he was going to get on the other side of the bed just to be close, Yata wasn't heartless enough to make him move. He straightened the blankets that Fushimi had gotten all twisted and pulled them back up around them. The wet strands of Fushimi's hair were cold against his chest.

 

Everything they planned went to shit. Taking Fushimi along in the hopes they could end the fighting, cut JUNGLE off at the head, had all been for naught. _They're always one step ahead of us._ He almost wished he hadn't proved Fushimi's worth to HOMRA because now he was stuck in the middle of it until it was over.

 

That night had been a near miss for them all. The war had to end soon, or he didn't know what would be left of them.

 

 

 

Reisi closed his book and rolled his neck. “It's getting late.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

He sighed. Sukuna had come to wait with him, but he had said very little save for a few mumbled expletives at his portable game.

 

“So how did you meet Anna?” he asked.

 

That, at least, got Sukuna to glance up. “We met at the arcade down the block.”

 

Reisi leaned back into the couch. Posture was important for a healthy spine but even his was in need of a break. “Love at first sight, was it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He chuckled, but Sukuna had sat up and closed his DS, and Reisi realized he was entirely serious. “Oh?”

 

“I've fucking hated my life since I was old enough to decide how boring it all was. Everything was a game, people were just NPCs to keep me busy while I tried to figure out what my main quest was. Then I saw her.” His green eyes seemed to brighten. “It was like I came hurtling down to Earth for the first time. Anna was _real._ ”

 

“What a surprise it must have been that she was in a gang such as this.” Reisi poured them each a finger of Johnnie Walker Blue he had helped himself to earlier. He had drank only a small amount so his hands would be steady if he was needed, but what he had poured was little more than a taste.

 

Sukuna picked up the glass and clinked it against Reisi's with a half hidden smile, like he was proud of himself for doing something cool. “Nah, it was one of the first things she told me. I don't think she meant to...it didn't seem like she had talked to many boys. I went over and said 'I'm Sukuna' and she goes 'I like guns' then turned all red.”

 

The door knob turned and both their heads shot to the side. Reisi's hand rested between two couch cushions where Mikoto had told him a gun lay beneath, but it was Izumo who walked in with Anna at his side.

 

“Anna!”

 

Sukuna leaped from the chair and over one of the tables. She gave a small smile, but Reisi could tell how tightly she embraced him by the way the back of Sukuna's vest crumpled around her fists. He walked over and put a hand on Izumo's shoulder. “Fushimi sent me a message earlier that everyone was alive and retiring for the night. Being alive sets the bar rather low for reassurances, however. Anyone hurt?”

 

“I got scratched. Mikoto might be hurt, I really don't know. I think that guy could get shot in the mouth and spit out the bullet so he could smoke.”

 

Reisi flipped one of the barstools down and had him sit. “Well, let's start with this scratch.”

 

Izumo began stiffly working his blazer off until Reisi stopped him with a pat on the arm. “Unless you plan on salvaging those clothes, allow me. The less you move around the better.”

 

“I don't think there's much hope for this stuff. Go ahead.”

 

Reisi picked up the bag of tools he had brought along off the coffee table and sat it on the bar. He found the scissors and grasped the bottom hem of Izumo's shirt. “Hold still.”

 

Even the double layer of shirt and jacket split easily between the sharp blades. He had to peel the jacket away where it was attached to the wound with dried blood, but Izumo didn't flinch. Reisi stood back to look at him once his clothes were out of the way. His HOMRA insignia sat on his right shoulder blade, a few years older than Yata's, going by the softer edges.

 

Izumo sat well for having his bicep cleaned and stitched. His upper body wasn't as scarred as Mikoto's but it obviously wasn't his first injury. “It's nothin' serious but make sure you get Fushimi to let you examine him, he got roughed up a little.”

 

“I didn't want to put you in low spirits before I stitched you up, but would I be correct to assume your misson failed?”

 

“Yeah. Spectacularly.”

 

“I'm sorry to hear it.”

 

Izumo huffed and rolled his shoulder once Reisi was done with him. “You sound like you mean that. I thought you found our way of life abhorrent.”

 

“I do,” Reisi said, packing his tools back into his bag. “I believe seeking violence is a tragic way to spend your time when the world is plagued by so much already but the longer I'm around the lot of you, I also believe you are fighting this war to protect your people, not for fun or glory or anything of your own volition.”

 

“You're right about that. Even when we're not at war, we're not violent just for the sake of it, y'know? We deal weapons but we don't sell to kids or people that seem off their rocker. We're businesspeople.”

 

“Then how did HOMRA get such a reputation for violence and destruction, I wonder.”

 

Izumo got to his feet. “Some folks in Flushing pay us protection money or some kinda service. When they call, we go knock some heads together. We're not so bad.”

 

Reisi smiled. “Perhaps not. Goodnight, Mr. Kusanagi.”

 

“See ya later, Doc. Thanks for patching me up.”

 

Reisi raised his hand in parting, called his goodnights to Anna and Sukuna, and left bar HOMRA with no expectations that it would be the last time. He felt oddly entwined with the lives of those criminals now. One of them, in particular. He sighed as he straddled his bike. His presence might not be welcome but he felt so inexorably pulled to that place that he seemed to have no control of his body as he rode in the opposite direction of Manhattan. He supposed he remembered where the apartment was since it was close to the bar. That was a better option than thinking it might have any personal significance to him.

 

He put the kickstand down and walked up to the complex. It was a few buildings, each with one apartment on the bottom and another on the second floor, making them quite large as a result. He ascended the stairs of the first building with all the resolve he could muster. Never before had he been someone to act on impulse, until he met that troublesome man. He stopped in front of the door. _Last chance to turn back._ No. When he made a decision he stuck to it, no matter how bad of one it seemed to be.

 

He knocked, and he looked directly at the peephole when footsteps came to a stop on the other side. “May I come in?”

 

The door opened and Mikoto regarded him with glazed, exhausted eyes. “Why the fuck not.” He ambled back into the apartment and put the gun down he had answered the door with. As usual, his sweatpants looked to be hanging from his hips by a thread, but somehow they stayed up.

 

Reisi closed the door behind him. The state of the apartment immediately made him anxious, something he had failed to take into consideration when he came. The studio layout of the place didn't help since it let him see the entire mess at once. _I won't stay long._ He went over to where Mikoto had thrown himself down on the bed.

 

“What happened?” he asked, sitting on the edge.

 

“They saw us comin'.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “One of my oldest friends got fucked up for life tonight. Those green sacks of shit just keep breakin' us down. I grabbed all that outta their control room but there's no telling if we can do anything with it,” he said, pointing to a pile of electronics on the armchair that, judging by the laundry hanging over it, served no purpose besides a catch-all.

 

There wasn't a pack on the nightstand, so he took his cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped one out. He offered it to Mikoto. “What now?”

 

“Damned if I know,” he said, propping himself on one elbow to take the cigarette between his lips.

 

There was a lighter by the ashtray so Reisi used it to light Mikoto's cigarette before lighting one for himself. He laid it back down and took a long draw. “Surely HOMRA won't give up so easily.”

 

“We're sure as hell not giving up, we just gotta regroup.” Mikoto blew out a plume of smoke and looked at him. “I'd think giving up is what you'd want us to do, though. Less fighting that way.”

 

“I suppose I owe you an apology.”

 

“I can't imagine what the high and mighty Reisi Munakata would apologize for.”

 

_I owe you one but you're making me want to give it to you less and less by the second._ “I still abide that you've done despicable things for deplorable reasons-”

 

“Slow down with the touchin' apology, I might cry.”

 

“ _But,”_ he said, shooting him a glare, “you're not be the heartless, bloodthirsty criminal I once thought you were. I think somewhere deep down there's a decent man in you.”

 

Mikoto sat up, hand sliding around the back of Reisi's head to tilt it so they were facing each other. “Thanks for the vote of confidence but don't waste your time if your waitin' for a decent man to show up, 'cause it ain't me.”

 

“I truly believe you would have sacrificed your own life tonight if that's what it would have taken to end the war against your people. I hate to undermine your ruthless persona but I've made up my mind about you,” he said, trying not to become distracted by the rough fingers sidling through his hair.

 

“So you think I'm a good man now,” Mikoto said. His face seemed closer than before.

 

“No,” Reisi said, his neck starting to ache from being turned sideways but somehow unable to look away, “but you could be.”

 

Mikoto leaned in and he suddenly went lightheaded as his surroundings disappeared. He gasped, overtaken with the memory of Mikoto naked above him, his neck decorated with red halos of teeth marks put on display when he dropped his head back with a groan. “ _Fuckin' hell you feel good.”_

 

“Oh,” he breathed.

 

The Mikoto of the present blinked at him. “What?”

 

Mikoto exhaled smoke into his face and yes, he had smelled of cigarettes that night, and sweat, a bitter but intoxicating scent that had poured into Reisi's senses as the redhead clenched around his cock. He could feel the impression of Mikoto's hipbones in his palms from when he grasped the man's waist as he rode him. The images flooding his mind rendered him unable to answer Mikoto for a long moment.

 

Without letting him go, Mikoto reached to the side to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Munakata.”

 

_Mikoto's head bowed forward as his muscles began to twitch. “Fuck, Reisi.”_

 

He swallowed and found his mouth extremely dry. “I seem to be remembering some of our night together.”

 

Mikoto let out a low chuckle. “So that's why you're gettin' excited.”

 

“Excited…?”

 

He realized with horror that the heat of his memories had begun to seep into his body in the present, in the worst and most obvious possible way. He jolted to his feet and cleared his throat. “Pardon me. I only meant to come check in after tonight's events, I didn't plan on-”

 

“Come back here,” Mikoto growled softly.

 

Reisi turned in surprise when fingers hooked into back pocket. Looking down at Mikoto also gave him an unfortunate glimpse of his own situation which was even worse than he thought, a hard, prominent bulge in his jeans. Mikoto had laid down and he smirked at him upside down, head hanging off the bed. He only let go when he saw that Reisi wasn't going to take off.

 

“What do you remember?” Mikoto asked, running a finger down Reisi's zipper.

 

Color rose unbidden to his face. “You, on top of me...moving. Now I really should be-”

 

“Go on, then, don't let me stop you,” Mikoto said, opening the button on his jeans. His smirk widened as he lowered the zipper.

 

His knees trembled. “We shouldn't.”

 

“I can't imagine why not.” He slid his hand into the front of Reisi's jeans.

 

“With everything that's h- _hah,_ ” he moaned as Mikoto palmed him through his underwear, “ _happened,_ surely you aren't in the right mindset for this.”

 

Mikoto found the head of his cock through the material, circled it with his thumb. There was something about watching his hand move under his jeans that was even more lewd than if he had been stripped naked. “I woulda wanted this either way...been dyin' to get my hands on you again.”

 

“Suoh,” he gasped as his cock throbbed under the attention.

 

Rough fingers found the waistband of his boxers. “Either tell me to stop or quit makin' excuses, 'cause I know you want this as much as I do.”

 

He bit his lip and looked away, and after a pause that gave him ample time to say no, Mikoto worked his jeans and boxers far enough down to release his arousal. He hissed as it met the open air. It wasn't particularly cold in the apartment but the heat centered at his lower body made all else seem cool by comparison. He couldn't bring himself to look down. He could feel how hard he was just from Mikoto's teasing, the sight of it would only shame him further.

 

“Munakata?” he said, pulling him forward by his hip.

 

He was both vexed and grateful that Mikoto wouldn't take his silence as consent. “Yes.”

 

That was the end of Mikoto's chivalry. He drew Reisi in until he was about a foot from the edge of the bed and Reisi jumped as something wet touched his cock. He had expected Mikoto's hand but it was wrapped around the base of his erection, doing no more than holding him steady. The other still grasped his hip.

 

Mikoto's tongue ran up the underside of his length and he shuddered. He made himself look down, unable to hold back a small, pleased sound as he watched Mikoto guide his cock between his lips. He hadn't expected Mikoto to offer him something so….submissive. It didn't help his already rampant arousal that Mikoto's mostly bare body was splayed out on the bed before him with his muscles taut and stretched from holding on to him, and an obvious tent in his sweatpants.

 

He sunk a little deeper into Mikoto's mouth and was met with a low hum of encouragement. He held Mikoto's head to steady himself. It was almost too much, the stimulation while also seeing Mikoto spread out before him, lips stretching around his cock.

 

“Oh,” he gasped, fingers threading into Mikoto's hair. “You're... _ah_ , you're something else.”

 

He was rewarded with a swipe of Mikoto's tongue around the head of his cock. He bucked forward with a groan. Apologies came to his lips immediately as he felt himself hit the back of Mikoto's throat, but a muffled moan vibrated around his cock and the hand around his hip tightened. He pulled back before making a slower, more deliberate thrust back into his mouth and Mikoto took him with ease.

 

His tentative movements fell into a rhythm. He watched, enraptured as his cock disappeared between Mikoto's lips over and over. He could feel his core tightening. To see Mikoto Suoh, the ruthless gang leader heralded throughout Queens as some kind of demon, on his back letting Reisi fuck his throat was more than he could take without getting pushed to the edge. He let one of his hands wander down just under Mikoto's jaw as he thrust forward.

 

A shocked moan escaped him as he felt the bulge of his cock at the top of Mikoto's throat. He had wanted to see but he didn't think he would actually be able to feel it.

 

“You're so good,” he said, voice starting to crack from pleasure.

 

He raked another appreciative glance over Mikoto's body and his breath hitched even further at the damp patch on the front of his sweatpants. The sight of his cock straining against its confines did him in. He tugged at Mikoto's hair. “Stop.”

 

He eased himself back and Mikoto didn't try to follow. He did peer at Reisi upside down, his lips pink and swollen. “What?” he asked, his usually gruff voice even more strained from the abuse on his throat.

 

“I want...more.”

 

Mikoto sat up and rose on his knees to face him in one graceful, rather leonine movement. “Mm, greedy. Tell me what you want.”

 

Reisi joined him on the bed, glad to be off his unsteady legs. “All of it.” He grabbed the top of Mikoto's sweatpants. “All of you.”

 

The air rushed out of him as Mikoto threw him down on his back. He began pushing Mikoto's pants off, giving himself to the fire, no longer feeling as though the man's heat would burn him if he got too close. He always thought his decisions through to the last detail and he had spent many nights thinking about Mikoto Suoh. He raised his hips for Mikoto to pull his jeans and underwear the rest of the way down. It was hard to kick them off without wanting to fold them and sit them aside but he quickly forgot about it under Mikoto's smoldering gaze. That's what Mikoto always did, he frayed the edges of his reason, disorganized him inside and consumed him too entirely for him to notice the mess being made of him.

 

Mikoto kissed down the side of his neck with just enough pressure to tickle. He squirmed under the unexpectedly gentle treatment, hips jerking up in search of relief. _I could have had it by now but I just had to go and stop him, didn't I?_ He tried to remind himself that it would be worth it but feeling Mikoto's body pressed against him made it hard to be patient. He dug his fingers into rumpled but soft sheets. Mikoto had pillows strewn all over the bed, which had irked Reisi to no end before but he now had something of an appreciation for them, surrounding the two of them in such a way that he felt closed off from everything else (including that disastrous apartment).

 

“ _Suoh_!” he cried out as teeth suddenly clamped down between his neck and shoulder. The abrupt contrast to the barely-there kisses made the sting that much worse and the sensation that much stronger. He didn't especially care for pain during sex but the low growl Mikoto let out as he sucked a hickey onto his skin had his cock twitching helplessly.

 

Mikoto reached into the nightstand and Reisi swallowed at the sight of a small bottle. Mikoto smirked at his reaction and sat back on his knees, all tan skin and erect, beautifully veined cock standing out proudly from his body. He coated his fingers in lube and leaned back down, supporting himself on one hand while the other disappeared between them.

 

He gasped as cold fingers touched his entrance.

 

“Relax,” Mikoto said, rubbing slow circles without pushing in. “You're gonna make it hurt if you stay clenched up like that.”

 

He flushed. “It's been awhile, since I recall that our night together you were the one...”

 

“Yeah, you remember. Made you hard, didn't it, thinkin' about bein' inside me?” he asked.

 

“You know already that it- _Ah,”_ he broke off in a clipped moan as Mikoto worked a finger into him.

 

He moved it in and out, not once giving Reisi the mercy of taking his eyes off him. “I gotta say I like this, though. You're not gonna look so composed anymore when I'm inside you.”

 

“Then get _on_ with it.”

 

Mikoto laughed. “Here I was tryin' to go easy on you.”

 

He pushed in a second finger with the first and Reisi was too desperate to let the slight burn deter him from pushing down against it. He was wishing once again he hadn't left the wet heat of Mikoto's mouth but in the moment he had been overcome with the long ignored desire to be filled, to be _taken_. He turned his face into the pillow so he wouldn't have to look at Mikoto as he moved his hips down against his fingers.

 

“Say it,” Mikoto rumbled, turning his face back toward him so he had no choice but to make eye contact.

 

He fumbled for the words as Mikoto's fingers just barely brushed over the spot that made the edges of his vision blur. “I want...I'd like for-”

 

“None of that prim and proper bullshit. Say it.”

 

_This arrogant bastard._ Reisi grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back. “Fuck me.”

 

He could feel the shudder that ran through Mikoto's body but it vexed him to no end that the man still chuckled with the punishing grip Reisi had on him. “Yes, sir.”

 

Reisi released him as he slid his fingers out. He hadn't let Mikoto spend as much time preparing him as he probably should have but damn it that man was forever trying him. He opened his knees wider on either side of Mikoto. He expected the next thing he felt to be Mikoto pressing into him so he was faintly surprised when the other man's fingertips settled over the bridge of his nose.

 

“They'll end up comin' off, anyway,” Mikoto said, taking his glasses and putting them aside.

 

He blinked Mikoto into as much clarity as his eyes would allow. It hadn't always been that bad but by the time he was done with medical school he had rendered his already questionable eyesight rather useless with too many all nighters and too many consecutive hours spent raking over textbooks without a break. The blurry image above him almost made him wish for the burden of having to look Mikoto in the face again. At least then he would be able to see it.

 

“You good?” Mikoto asked.

 

“I can't see,” he muttered. It didn't directly affect their plans but it was still unnerving.

 

Mikoto reached over to the nightstand. Reisi thought he would have his glasses in his hand but instead he saw a fuzzy white rectangle. A remote, perhaps.

His theory was proved correct when Mikoto moved his thumb and all the lights went out. The only light came from the city but that window was on the other side of the apartment and he wouldn't call the vague, gray shapes in the room _visble,_ exactly.

 

“There, now I can't see either. Raise your hips.”

 

He did as Mikoto asked and found one of his legs being pulled over Mikoto's shoulder. His toes twitched involuntarily where they rested next to the man's ear. It wasn't uncomfortable like he expected, with his other leg around Mikoto's waist and most of his lower body off the mattress. Mikoto reached past him again and heard what was, while not a _very_ familiar sound, a familiar enough sound for him to know he was opening a condom packet. The rip of foil was followed closely by the snap of a plastic cap.

 

Mikoto growled low as he started pushing in and Reisi was glad since it covered his own gasping breaths. The pain was nothing like what he expected after so long. God, it felt _good._ He made a rather petulant noise when Mikoto stopped just shy of being fully sheathed in him. Mikoto chuckled and eased almost all the way back out.

 

“Don't get too impatient. As long as I've been thinkin' about this, I'm gonna fuck you right.”

 

Any chance he might have had to ask for clarification was wiped out as Mikoto thrust forward and slammed into his prostate. Reisi was helpless to the moan that shuddered past his lips. Mikoto set a slow, deep rhythm that never missed the bundle of nerves inside him, never giving him a chance to regain his breath. His eyes stung from the constant stimulation after just minutes of that treatment.

 

Something warm brushed against the arch of his foot, and then Mikoto's voice, “Gonna make you fuckin' lose it.”

 

He scrambled for a retort that fell apart as Mikoto's tongue swiped over the tender flesh, the only part of his foot with any feeling left after staying on them most of the time. He tried to jerk away but Mikoto's arm was wrapped tightly around his leg. “Don't,” he gasped. He couldn't take anything else with Mikoto steadily working his prostate. Especially not _there._

 

He sighed in relief when Mikoto stopped only to have it escape his throat again as a moan when Mikoto's teeth sunk in instead. His toes curled as he soothed the bite with his tongue. It felt even more lewd to take pleasure from somewhere not meant to be touched by another person, let alone with their mouth.

 

“You're shaking,” Mikoto said, running his hand up his calf.

 

Reisi barely recognized his own voice when he replied, it had gone so hoarse. “It's...a lot.”

 

“Good.”

 

Mikoto started fucking him faster, and Reisi grabbed onto the edge of the bed like it would keep him from flying apart. His cock ached and wept. With his lower body elevated, he could feel the precome dripping onto him. Under his heel he could feel tension mounting in Mikoto's shoulder and it was a small consolation to know the other man was starting to fray at the edges as well.

 

Mikoto's thrusts were moving his entire body. His leg anchored around his waist kept him from going far but he still reached behind him to grasp the pillows, trying to steady himself. It was no use.

 

“ _Mikoto_ ,” he cried out, unsure if the moisture trickling down the side of his face was sweat or tears from the overwhelming sensations.

 

His back arched even higher off the bed as fingers closed around his cock. They slid up around his swollen, slick head and heat flooded him before he could stop it. “ _Oh-_ Oh, God,” he moaned as he came, hard and suddenly.

 

He flushed even deeper if it was possible as come shot out over his stomach and chest. He was glad the lights weren't on so he didn't have to see the state of himself, drenched in his own release. He shuddered through the orgasm prolonged by Mikoto's steady thrusts into him. His rhythm was faltering, though, the longer Reisi clenched around him and he knew he couldn't be far behind him in going over the edge.

 

“Turn over,” he growled, and dropped Reisi's legs from around him.

 

Reisi grimaced at the wet sound of Mikoto pulling out of him but he complied, if not rather slowly since he was still trembling. He had barely gotten turned to face the bed when Mikoto shoved him forward and he had to brace his hands against the wall. _So rough,_ he thought (as though he didn't enjoy it, but he preferred not to admit that).

 

Mikoto entered him again and he shivered as he pushed past his sensitive walls. He blinked at the feeling of fingers against his face. Mikoto gathered the long locks of hair that hung down on either side and wound them around his hand at the back of Reisi's head. It stung; not enough to hurt, just enough to make him feel like prey being held by the throat. It forced his head back, leaving him no way to muffle his weak cry as Mikoto thrust against his abused prostate.

 

"You're fuckin' perfect," Mikoto ground out. "Been wanting to do this from the first time I saw you."

 

Reisi thought back to a time that seemed much longer ago than it was and marveled at how he'd gone from that unremarkable afternoon to _this._ His back ached in protest to Mikoto's next brutal thrust. " _Hah-_ have you now?"

 

"Been wantin' to see you all stripped down, stripped of that pretty pride you have, all those morals an' reservations."

 

He lost his words for a moment as Mikoto's rhythm began to falter but his hips snapped even harder against him. It was an odd feeling, the arousal pooling in his stomach with nowhere to go, his cock too spent for another orgasm but his body responding all the same. His walls clenched around Mikoto as though to keep him there even if it was pointless. _Thank God I can't come again or I might black out._

 

Mikoto shuddered to a stop against him with a soft grunt of, " _Fuck_."

 

Reisi couldn't help but moan along with him as Mikoto slowly ground against his ass, riding out his orgasm. It tapered off into a sigh of relief as the fingers in his hair went slack and simply rested there. He leaned back unconsciously into the touch, taking support wherever he could get it with his limbs threatening to give out underneath him. Mikoto's hand dropped and his hair fell back to the sides of his face in disarray. He hissed as Mikoto slid out. He felt like his nerves were raw, exposed and that the slightest touch could flay them beyond repair, and he would be ruined by Mikoto Suoh to an even greater extent than he once feared.

 

He wouldn't be able to blame the other man, though. He had set down this road to ruin all on his own.

 

"C'mon," Mikoto said, getting off the bed.

 

He lowered himself down and looked sideways at the shape of Mikoto in the darkness. "Where?"

 

"You wanna clean up, don't you?"

 

He grimaced at the sticky mess that made itself known when his chest connected with the bed. "That would be ideal."

 

He swung his legs off the side of the bed to stand up, only to have them wobble once before his knees buckled. The room, however little he could see of it, rushed past his eyes as he went down.

 

"Hey, now," Mikoto rumbled, grabbing him as he stumbled back against the bed.

 

He was glad once more for the lack of visibility so Mikoto couldn't see the embarrassment coloring his face. "I'm fine, just need to reorient my-just what do you think you're doing? You put me down this instant!"

 

Mikoto swept him up like he weighed no more than a leaf. "Just shut up and come on."

 

Not having to depend on his own shaky limbs was a relief but he put up a fight all the way to the bathroom for the sake of his dignity. Never in his life had someone lifted all six feet of his reasonably muscular body like a princess and toted him off somewhere. The most insulting part was how oddly pleasant it was.

 

No. Absolutely not. He was too educated of a man to go soft on Mikoto of all people.

 

There had been nothing soft about their coupling. He held fast to that as Mikoto guided him under the shower stream, reminded himself of that diligently as Mikoto washed him off when he couldn't keep the soap in his own grasp for shaking.

 

He did believe there was a good man in Mikoto, but surely Reisi couldn't fall for him as he was, with blood on his hands and the intention to shed much, much more by the time it was over. _Surely._

 

 

 


	21. Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First I want to say thank you so much for anyone who still came back to read this after such a long absence. Even the reviewers who have asked when/if I will be updating again have been so kind and patient. You are truly the best readers anyone could ask for and I'm so, so sorry for how long I've been gone. Shortly after my last update I started to struggle with writer's block and an especially rough bout of anxiety, and also since then, one of our cats passed away and I was absolutely broken. Our cats are like kids to my husband and I. But, slowly but surely I got my mental and physical energy back and started writing again. I will absolutely be updating sooner this time.
> 
> Thank you from the bottom of my heart for coming to read this very late chapter <3 I tried to make it as worth the wait as I could!

It was the same room they stood in the day before, and it also wasn't.

 

“The bastards,” Sukuna said, trembling with anger under his stupid, preppy clothes, “the worthless bastards tried to hurt Anna.”

 

There was too much tension for any of them to sit. They stood in a loose circle around one of the tables; the same one, if Yata remembered right, where Dewa had laid not that long ago dying of a homo, hema...whatever Fushimi had fixed. Fushimi had leaned there just minutes earlier while Reisi checked out his injuries. They weren't severe, apparently, but the presence of them at all was enough to make Yata's temples throb with anger. It was the same with the sight of Tatara, his eyes fixed on the floor, present but very much absent.

 

“The warehouse was our only lead,” Anna murmured.

 

Yata looked at the untended bar. “Izumo went to see Shiro hoping he might have heard something on Nagare's movements.”

 

“Fuck that,” Mikoto said.

 

Yata glanced over. “What?”

 

“Fuck the games, fuck chasing our goddamn tails, _fuck_ Nagare. I'll torch every fucking street in College Point until he comes out.”

 

“Boss, there are innocent people in-”

 

“Let them burn,” he growled, flattening his palms against the table. “If it's our own or some fucking people we don't know, then I'm gonna to pick our people every time. We tried to play nice and look where the hell it got us.”

 

He didn't say anything. He couldn't. Whether any of them agreed with that kind of collateral damage or not, there was no disputing that they had been getting their asses handed to them left and right. Even Reisi, who seemed to be taking _just_ enough time packing his medical bag to remain present for this conversation, didn't interject, though Yata thought that was less because he agreed with Mikoto's plan and more because he knew better than to get in the middle of it. From what he had learned of Reisi and the odd closeness that Yata had started to notice between the two of them, he would try to talk to Mikoto later but anyone in the room knew speaking against him in front of HOMRA was suicide.

 

“What's the point?” Tatara asked softly.

 

Apparently, some people in the room didn't care.

 

Mikoto looked up with the fiercest stare Yata had ever seen him set on one of his friends. “Excuse me?”

 

“What's the point of beating JUNGLE if we become even worse than they are? But I mean if that's what you want, go ahead. Go be the ruthless, cold blooded monster everyone on the outside thinks you are, just because outgunning JUNGLE is easier than outsmarting them.”

 

Mikoto's blunt nails scraped the table as his hands clenched. “Tats. You've been through a lot. Take a walk.”

 

Tatara looked prepared to say something else but Yata stopped him short with a hand around his elbow. “Come on, let's get some fresh air.”

 

He threw Fushimi an apologetic look for leaving him, but his boyfriend just waved him off and sat down on the couch with his phone. Yata allowed himself a moment of relief as the doors to the bar fell shut behind them; at times like this, he was glad Fushimi was fearless. Anyone else would probably feel like a piece of meat in a den of wolves if they were an outsider left with Mikoto, let alone an angry Mikoto.

 

“I'm not trying to hurt him,” Tatara said as they reached the end of the block.

 

Yata stopped. “I know. I think he knows, too. He just doesn't want to hear that right now.”

 

“They show it differently than us.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Tatara's eyes had fixed on a sign across the street, but they were unfocused. “When they're scared. Mikoto, Izumo, even your Saruhiko, they don't show it the same way we do. They don't let themselves feel it because they're big tough morons so they freak out when you make them face it.

 

“Mikoto can't bury himself again. Last time he refused to deal with something, he was a teenager with so much pent up anger that it ate him alive until he burned a building down with someone inside it and went to prison.”

 

Yata had been following his gaze but at that his head snapped over to look at Tatara again. “Someone was inside?”

 

“Yeah, that's why he was tried for arson. He said he didn't know but he already had a record by then, so the judge thought he needed to do time.”

 

Yata mulled that over but he didn't think about it too hard. He couldn't, not right now. “The Boss is angry, he wants revenge for everything JUNGLE has been doing to us, to _you._ It''s not just blind rage. One of his best friends is hurting and he wants to make someone pay for that.” He ran the toe of his shoe between two panels of the sidewalk. “He isn't going to be mad if you sit out the rest of the fight. We all want you to be safe. And it's like you told me not long ago, you didn't want the wars and the violence, you just wanted to be with your friends. I'm sure they know that, too.”

 

“If I'm not there, who's going to keep Mikoto from spiraling out of control?”

 

_I don't think anyone can do that now,_ but he wasn't going to say that, especially with the tremor in Tatara's hands and the way his eyes had misted over. “We'll figure it out. There's no such thing as a gang being on the right path but we can at least keep him on a better one.”

 

“Thank you.” Tatara put a hand on his shoulder, and his momentary relief came to a halt when Tatara said, “But I'm not going anywhere. I've been with those two idiots longer than I've been with the same family my whole life.”

 

“Heh. I guess I shouldn't have expected anything different from a founding member of HOMRA.”

 

Tatara winked. “That's right. Come on, let's get back.”

 

He didn't know how much of Tatara's resolve was genuine and how much was to try and convince himself that he was okay after what happened to him, but he did know Tatara wasn't going to be swayed if his mind was made up. He might be of a gentler nature but he was just as stubborn as the other two.

 

Most of everyone else had cleared out by the time they returned. Mikoto was sulking on the couch, leaving Doc and Fushimi at the bar talking to Izumo. Reisi was leaning across the bar to say something to the blond and Yata didn't have to see his face to know Fushimi was rolling his eyes at their friendliness. They shared a low chuckle that had Mikoto's eyes narrowing. Yata sighed. _There's more intelligence gathered around that bar right now than the rest of HOMRA freakin' combined._

 

“Alright, time for everybody to get outta here. Izu's gonna look over some stuff I found at the warehouse and he needs to be able to concentrate,” Mikoto said, pushing himself up from the couch.

 

“I picked you up today, I'll run ya home,” Izumo said.

 

Mikoto put a cigarette between his lips. “I'll walk. I need you working on that,” he said, flicking his lighter. Yata could only assume “that” was what looked like a gutted computer at the end of the bar.

 

“I'll drop him off on my way, don't fret,” Reisi said when Izumo looked ready to protest.

 

“Thanks. None of us should be hanging around on the streets alone too much,” Izumo said.

 

Mikoto's brows furrowed in irritation before disappearing behind the plume of smoke he blew out. “I can take care of my fuckin' self. Who do I look like, Red Riding Hood?”

 

“You _look_ like an edgy teenager that found Splat hair dye ten years ago and never went back,” Fushimi said.

 

“Listen here you fucking-”

 

“ _Enough,_ Fushimi,” Reisi said, stepping between them.

 

Yata put his arm around Fushimi, and though the display just seemed to peeve Mikoto more (not that Izumo and Tatara's badly repressed laughter could have been helping), it put one more body in the way of those two going at each other. He slid a couple fingers into Fushimi's belt loops for good measure. “We should get going, too.”

 

Reisi walked over and plucked the cigarette from between Mikoto's lips. He took a drag before crushing it into the ashtray on the bar. “Let's be on our way.”

 

Mikoto followed, mumbling, “Bunch of assholes.”

 

Yata looked over at Tatara once the Boss was gone. He still had dark circles under his eyes and tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before the warehouse, but there had been no hesitation when he walked past Mikoto, no coldness to each other. It was like nothing had happened earlier. He couldn't help but wonder if the friendship between the three of them was the most functional thing he had ever seen or the least.

 

“Hey, Fushimi,” Izumo called out as they headed for the door.

 

“What?” And if Fushimi sounded a little _less_ miserable to be spoken to by Izumo than any of the others, it could at least be called progress.

 

Izumo picked up one of the wires hanging loose from the junk on the bar. “If I hit a wall with this, I don't suppose you would come lend your expertise?”

 

“Tch. Maybe. I'm a little busy trying to graduate.”

 

Izumo smiled, undeterred. “Great, I'll call if I need you then!”

 

Of course Izumo had his boyfriend's number. Damned information broker.

 

He got Fushimi out of there before he tapped into what could only be bottomless reserves of hostility and things were still peaceful. He stopped in between their vehicles, parked at the curb in front of the bar. “Headed home to study?”

 

“No, I just don't want any of those losers thinking I'm at their disposal.”

 

Yata passed on the chance to reprimand him for talking about HOMRA like that, more concerned with the package he had picked up from the apartment's main office, and not sounding as nervous as he felt when he said, “Maybe I could come over for awhile, if that's cool.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Okay. I'll, um, follow you on my bike. So I can go back home. At some point.”

_Nailed it._

 

Fushimi raised an eyebrow and took his keys off his belt loop. “Right.”

 

He spared Yata any further suffering by getting into the Audi and closing the door. Yata guessed that made sense if they would be seeing each other back at the apartment. Where he was supposed to be going. _Shit._ He got on his bike and started it up, not wanting Fushimi to arrive too long before him and have time to wonder why he wanted to come over, which he probably wouldn't because unlike Yata he wasn't five and a half feet of concentrated anxiety. _You got this,_ he told himself, even with his palms sweating around the handlebars.

 

He didn't have this.

 

 

 

“This thing…is yours?” Mikoto asked incredulously.

 

Reisi threw his leg over the seat and looked at the other man, standing on the sidewalk. “What of it?”

 

“I don't know. I've seen it around the bar, I just didn't think it was yours.”

 

“Well, are you getting on or not?” he asked, starting the engine.

 

“Hell yes.”

 

He rolled his eyes but waited for Mikoto to get on behind him before he knocked the kickstand up and pulled into the road. Mikoto's hands settled on his hips in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant. He relaxed into the familiarity of his bike. There had always been something therapeutic about it, perhaps the feeling of just barely being in control, enough that he didn't feel anxious but toeing the line in such a way that gave him a rush. _Maybe it's the same with you,_ he thought of the man at his back. With the city blurring on either side and the Harley roaring underneath them, it was almost possible to forget who they were, and more challenging still, who they weren't.

 

It was only a couple of blocks to Mikoto's apartment. He rolled to a stop and absolutely did not miss the calloused grip on his waist when Mikoto stood up.

 

“Come up for a few,” Mikoto said.

 

It was never just a few, but he said, “Alright. I'll be keeping it short.” He didn't know which one of them he was lying to at that point, or which of them was the least convinced by his attempt.

 

He followed Mikoto upstairs. The line of his shoulders under his coat looked more rigid than the first time he had seen the man. _That fire inside, does it burn you, I wonder?_ He resolved not to let his curiosity fester. There was something more than violence and hatred in Mikoto, somewhere, but he was a long way from digging it out.

 

Mikoto turned the key in the lock and opened the door. No sooner than Reisi made to follow him, his arm shot out so fast that Reisi stumbled back a couple of steps. “Wait.”

 

“What's the matter?”

 

Mikoto left the door ajar to reach under his coat. “The security system is already off. Somebody's been here,” he said, snapping the magazine into his MAC-10.

 

He knocked the door open with the gun and swept the room as soon as he was inside. Reisi put his back to him, watching the stairs and the parking lot. He kept his eyes on his more immediate surroundings, as none of the neighboring buildings had a decent vantage point for a sniper.

 

“Nobody's here anymore,” Mikoto said, returning from a quick search. He supposed it couldn't have taken long, though, with the floor plan entirely open save for the bathroom.

 

Reisi followed him inside. He expected to find it vandalized, but the apartment looked untouched except the blinking text on the security panel that read _Disarmed._ He looked around a second time. He knew Mikoto had checked it out but he still thought someone was going to come out. The apartment was so unscathed that he would question if it had been broken into at all if not for Mikoto's certainty that he had armed the security system before he left.

 

“Welcome home, Mikoto Suoh.”

 

They both started and spun at the sound of what was an unfamiliar voice to him but obviously wasn't to Mikoto. His lip curled into a snarl as soon as he heard it. When they turned, though, the TV surged to life and there wasn't another human being in sight. He blinked as the green power light came on and the screen lit up. That part was normal enough if it wasn't for the remote, laying untouched on the couch. The channel number in the bottom corner of the screen was just a row of zeroes and the image that greeted them looked like it could have been recorded from a webcam.

 

“Nagare,” Mikoto growled. “How?”

 

The man on the screen smiled. “You would be amazed how many common electronic devices have cameras or microphones in them. I see you,” he said in a singsong voice.

 

It was unsettling to say the least, realizing that the image on screen was not a recording at all, but a live feed to a man with eyes and ears somehow monitoring them. That man wasn't what he expected. He was younger than the image Reisi had cultivated in his mind, the person on the TV looked close to his own age, and the halo of dark curls around his face gave a mocking impression of innocence.

 

“Fucking coward. How about you unplug and come face me yourself,” Mikoto said.

 

The man, Nagare, wasn't fazed by his taunts. “Don't be so hasty. I'm contacting you with a peace offering, after all.”

 

Reisi scanned the room again. It would be an ideal time for an attack, with Mikoto absorbed in his conversation. They still appeared to be alone.

 

“You finally givin' up?”

 

“Not hardly. However, I would like to offer you a resolution that will end the bloodshed between us. You only need to bring me one thing and this can all be over.”

 

Mikoto had lowered his gun, but Reisi could guess they shared the same suspicions, as his finger rested just a hair from the trigger. “I think you're full of shit but what would this thing be, huh?”

 

“You.”

 

Mikoto huffed. “Keep holdin' your breath.”

 

“We'll speak again soon, Suoh.”

 

Nagare reached out and the screen went blank. They stood in the middle of the apartment in a long, pregnant silence. Reisi gave him a questioning look. Mikoto shook his head. He dropped the magazine from his gun and put the two pieces back inside his coat, and Reisi took that as the all clear. Mikoto knew the man that had just been on the TV better than he did by far so if he didn't think they were at risk, Reisi would give him that much faith. Mikoto continued staring at the screen for another moment, and though his hands didn't shake, there were lines of tension between his eyebrows, a visible tic in his jaw.

 

“I can't imagine why he would go through the trouble for such a short conversation,” Reisi said, eyes drifting once more to the disarmed security panel.

 

“Yeah, he could have found my number just as easy. He did this just to fuckin' show me that he could. That's fine.” He sighed and reached under the leg of his jeans.

 

“Mikoto, surely you aren't-”

 

Mikoto clicked off the safety and drowned out the rest of his sentence in the rapid popping of the Glock 18. The light fixtures, the security panel, even the microwave blasted apart under the spray of gunfire. No sooner than the magazine ran out did he take a spare from underneath his other pant leg and unload it into the TV. The couch was caught with a few stray rounds, sending stuffing and shreds of leather into the air to join all the other debri from unlucky furniture and fixtures. Reisi shook his head to clear the ringing from so many shots in an enclosed space. He thought his vision was blurred for a moment until he waved a hand in front of his face and realized it was drywall dust.

 

Just when he thought the destruction was over, Mikoto threw his phone on the ground and stomped it to bits under his red Timberland boots. His eyes were wild when he looked back up at Reisi. He didn't seem entirely _there_ at first, not until Reisi pointed up to get him to listen, and the sound came through one of the shattered windows as clear as the daylight. Sirens.

 

“I'm outta here. You should go, too,” Mikoto said, putting the gun back into its ankle holster.

 

“The bar and the listed addresses of your associates are the first places they'll look.”

 

Mikoto looked toward the window. The wailing was getting closer, fast. “I'll figure it out.”

 

“Come on.”

 

Reisi walked away without looking behind him. After an instant of hesitation, he heard glass crunch under boots, and he knew Mikoto had followed. Their long legs made quick work of the stairs. The jog from the front of the building to the curb where he had parked the bike was the worst, knowing the police could round the corner at any minute and he would be making a run for it with the very man they wanted to take away, had been dying to put away if what Mikoto had told him was true. Reckless idiot. For someone who tried to avoid cops, he didn't think his actions through very well.

 

He peeled into the street and went in the opposite direction of the sirens. He sighed as he realized the taxi in front of them was going a good ten miles per hour under the speed limit. There was no opening to pass. “Hold on,” he yelled over the engine, and he could only hope Mikoto heard him. He swerved toward the crosswalk at the next intersection where the sidewalk dipped down for pedestrians. The sirens weren't far enough away for them to be safe, not nearly. He cut his wheels and slid up onto the sidewalk. Thank God there weren't many people walking and the ones who were immediately stepped aside. The Harley didn't lend itself well to the narrow confines of a sidewalk, so as soon as they were past the slower moving traffic he leaned left on nothing but a hope and a prayer that the bike wouldn't turn over as they dropped from the sidewalk at such a high speed.

 

It definitely went further to the side than he wanted and the back tire almost skirted into the other lane when he tried to compensate, but he whipped it back to the other side of the line and somehow kept them upright.

 

By some miracle made it across the bridge into Manhattan without getting them pulled over. At that point he felt it safe to drive like someone less suicidal. He felt a few years had been shaved off his life when he finally parked on the fourth floor of the parking garage in his usual spot. Mikoto got off, but he sat a minute longer, getting his bearings. Mikoto came to stand next to him and he followed his gaze across the street to the familiar building (or it was familiar to him, anyway).

 

“Now what?” Mikoto asked.

 

Reisi sighed, committing to what was by far the worst idea he'd had in their time together, which surpassed a bar that was already set rather high. “I suppose you'll stay with me for a brief period,” he said, regretting every word.

 

“Oh will I now,” Mikoto said with a purr that certainly wasn't there before.

 

Reisi pointed a warning finger at him. “ _Brief_ period. And you're sleeping on the couch.”

 

  


Yata walked through the door of Fushimi's apartment like it was his own. _When did that happen?_ He had been there a few times now but he couldn't put his finger on when he started feeling so comfortable there. That was like the rest of their relationship, though. He couldn't figure out when it went from _You're hot and I hate you,_ to _You're pretty and I kind of don't hate you as much,_ to

 

Yeah. To what it was now.

 

He stared at Fushimi's back as he wandered down the hallway, muttering something, probably a complaint about HOMRA. It didn't bother him as much anymore He curled his hand around the box in the pocket of his cargo shorts (which he was starting to think may have too many pockets since he had panicked when he didn't feel the box in the _first_ pocket he stuck his hand in, only to find it three pockets later). He followed him into the bedroom with his heart doing annoying things that he could feel all the way in his throat.

 

"Hey," he said.

 

Fushimi paused in pulling a shirt on. "What?"

 

He walked over and grabbed the shirt, pushed it back up over Fushimi's head. "I, um."

 

A soft sound of amusement as the shirt hit the ground, and Fushimi's voice soothing and fraying his nerves all at the same time when he said, "Do you need to buy a vowel?"

 

"Oh, shut the fuck up." _No. That's not what I'm trying to say. Though, in our language, they practically mean the same thing._ "Just...hush for a minute."

 

Fushimi stepped backward to sit on the end of the bed, making him shorter than Yata, which was satisfying no matter how temporary. He shot him an inviting gaze through his bangs. "Make me."

 

Yata slid his arms and around him and did just that. It was hard not to get lost in the kiss, with Fushimi's skinny waist fitting so perfectly in his grasp and Fushimi letting his mouth be dominated in a way that Yata expected to have to fight for, but was given willingly. He pulled Fushimi closer to him and got a shuddering gasp.

 

He realized why as soon as he opened his eyes and found that his vicegrip was around Fushimi's ribs, still mottled with bruises. "Shit-"

 

Fushimi purred against his mouth. "I like it."

 

Yata dropped his arms from around him despite his sound of protest. He put his hand back into the correct pocket of his shorts (he had made a mental note of which one it was this time, dammit) and fumbled with the box. Luckily, Fushimi was distracted with the hand Yata had rested on the side of his face, swiping at his digits with his tongue and biting gently at the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. _I just had to go and get him riled up, didn't I? Now I'm really going to play hell getting him to listen to me._

 

"I got you something," he said.

 

That got him a raised eyebrow, and Fushimi looking at him from the corner of his eye while sucking on his index finger (trying to get his attention, and maybe Fushimi was the stupid one after all if he really thought he had to do anything to get Yata's attention besides _exist)._

 

He finally let go of his hand when he saw Yata wasn't going to elaborate further. His expression was mostly petulant with a little curiosity, but at least he had stopped doing those things that made Yata want to say fuck it to his plans and occupy Fushimi's mouth with something else.

 

Okay. He had to focus.

 

"I've never seen you wear jewelry but I just...wanted to get something that would help me say this."

 

Fushimi's face went blank in a way that did nothing to help Yata's nerves. "Oh?"

 

It took a couple tries to open the box since his fingers had started shaking. "I thought it looked kinda weird but it's for you so I guess as long as you like it..." _You're babbling, Yata, get it_ _the fuck_ _together._ "It's supposed to be a molecular structure."

 

Fushimi stared at him and yeah, he guessed there were probably a lot of different molecular structures, but if he didn't explain this in bits and pieces then he was going to collapse from nerves. He was already itching to open the window, hurl the box as far across Manhattan as he could, and use carnal means to convince Fushimi the conversation never happened so he wouldn't ask questions.

 

He tossed the lid aside and held out the box. “Y'know back when we first met, I called you Sunshine to be funny because you seemed so glum. Then it was really funny 'cause you had never heard the song.” He laughed at himself since Fushimi didn't seem to be up to the task. “But even though I joked about it back then, you really do...make me happy.”

 

Fushimi reached for the silver pendant, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “Serotonin.”

 

“I told you I would find a way to tell you how I felt in a way you could understand. So I thought maybe this-”

 

“Misaki.”

 

Yata's breath stuttered in his throat as long fingers closed around his where he held the box. Fushimi wouldn't look at him, and with the downward tilt of his head Yata almost didn't hear him say, “Yeah. You, too.”

 

He didn't think the longest speech or the sweetest music anyone could write would have compared to those three simple words and the way they carved his chest open, ripped out some of his insecurities and replaced them with something warm, something _certain._ He cleared his throat. “I can put it on you.”

 

Fushimi finally looked up at him. Speaking such a small truth must have taken his voice for the time being, as he just lifted his hair off the back of his neck without looking away. _So fucking unfair._ The minute task of putting a necklace on someone became a Herculean effort just from having to meet his eyes, full of alien things like doubt and – dare he entertain the idea – emotion. He lifted the leather cord off the backing inside the box and opened the clasp. Fushimi's pulse fluttered wildly as Yata reached around his neck. It took a couple of attempts but Yata hooked the clasp at his nape, and Fushimi let go of his hair, the inky strands spilling back onto his paper white shoulders.

 

He didn't know who reached for who, just that his empty hands were almost immediately filled with slender hips that Yata deemed an acceptable distance from his wounds and Fushimi's fingers clutched his shoulders. It was a little awkward, leaning down to hold on to him, an issue that became moot as Fushimi slid back on the bed, guiding him to follow and it would take a stronger person than Yata to resist a command like that, unspoken or not. Fushimi laid down and Yata lowered himself over top of him.

 

“Misaki,” he gasped as Yata moved down to his neck.

 

He brushed his lips over Fushimi's pulse, over the soft leather that now rested there, down to the dip of his collarbone and the pendant that sat just below it. He could only linger there for a minute before the temptation was too great and he stroked his tongue over one of his nipples. Fushimi's back arched and he hissed softly. Yata couldn't help but groan, himself, as the pink bud hardened under his mouth. He flicked his tongue against it to selfishly hear more of Fushimi's voice.

 

He felt Fushimi squirm, growing restless, and abandoned the sensitive spot (for now) to ghost a kiss over his ribs, an apology of sorts for hurting him earlier. The fact Fushimi had enjoyed it didn't make him feel any better. The mottled expanse of blue and purple was there because of _him,_ it was ugly and sore and not at all the controlled pain he dealt to Fushimi in as small of doses as he could get away with. He leaned his forehead against Fushimi's sternum. He could still see Fushimi's foot flying under that green bastard's jaw, the fluid and lethal grace that must have hurt like a bitch to execute after getting the shit kicked out of him moments earlier.

 

“Misaki?”

 

He looked up and sighed. “Sorry. I was just thinking about last night. I wish I could go back and stay, ya know? Stay with you and protect you. Or maybe get the whole thing called off somehow.”

 

“I don't need protection,” Fushimi said, matter of fact but not terse, a small change in tune that told Yata he must really be worrying him.

 

“I know.” He chuckled lightly. “Trust me, now I know. You're kinda scary when you wanna be.”

 

Fushimi's fingers traced his shoulder, reminding him of his arousal, neglected for the time being but having no hope of fading with Fushimi sprawled out in front of him like that. They moved down to his waist and he sucked in a sharp breath as he felt his guns being pulled away from his back. He balanced on his knees to grab Fushimi's wrists. Not hard, just took them and eased them down above his head, his pistols still in Fushimi's loose grasp but pointing harmlessly toward the wall.

 

“Careful with those,” he said, covering Fushimi's fingers with his own.

 

He didn't think he liked seeing such volatile things in Fushimi's hands. His skin was too white against the black slide of the M9A3, too pure against the HOMRA insignia on the grip of the 92. He slid them out of Fushimi's hold and sat them aside on the nightstand. Fushimi put his newly vacated fingers to use in the meantime, tracing the lines of Yata's abs under his shirt, going further down to tease the straining crotch of his pants.

 

The shared heat between them was too much. He yanked his own shirt over his head before starting the grievous task of getting Fushimi's jeans off. If he didn't look so good in them, Yata might burn every pair of skinny jeans he owned, and maybe petition to rid the world of them entirely. Fushimi wasn't helping, gasping and raising his hips into the light stimulation of Yata's hand as he worked the zipper down. Yata felt like it was his own cock that had been freed, he was so relieved when he got the damned things off his hips. He slid them down his legs with less effort, thank god. If it had taken too much longer then they might have met the same fate as the attractive but stupidly impractical shirt Fushimi had worn the night HOMRA reopened.

 

Fushimi was too close to being naked for him to resist any longer. He moved down to press his lips against the bulge in Fushimi's black briefs. He laved his tongue over the head, making the fabric damp and clingy. Fushimi moved against him with a sweet, tortured sound, and Yata let him rub himself against his tongue. He would have done anything to keep watching Fushimi fall apart. He sucked at his head through his underwear and reveled in the moan Fushimi gave in response; it was rare to see him be the desperate one, to hear a pleading edge to his cries, and it was turning him on so bad his cock _ached_.

 

“Misaki, come here,” Fushimi rasped.

 

He reluctantly left his position but his disappointment was short lived as he moved back up and got to look down on Fushimi's flushed face. He breathed in sharply as Fushimi's hand curled around his jaw, fingertips splaying on his cheek.

 

“I want you to feel what I've felt,” Fushimi said, and slid his other hand between them, completing what Yata would find a near impossible task in flicking the button of his pants open with two fingers. “I want to be your first again.”

 

He couldn't quite understand Fushimi's meaning with that heated stare locked on him, to say nothing of the relief of his pants and underwear finally being pulled down.

 

“I don't need much preparation. I want it to burn,” Fushimi said into his ear.

 

All the air rushed out of his lungs at once as his brain caught up to what Fushimi was telling him. “Saru,” he said weakly. He didn't know if it was acknowledgment or a question or a plea. Only Fushimi could be offering himself that way and still make Yata feel like he was at his mercy.

 

Fushimi was already leaning over and getting something (Yata could guess what) out of the nightstand but the rest of what he had said had lodged in the front of Yata's mind in a way that just wasn't sitting right. _God, I can't believe I'm about to fuck this up,_ he thought, and proceeded to fuck it up.

 

“Wait.”

 

Fushimi sat the small bottle next to the pillows. “What?”

 

“I don't wanna hurt you,” he said, pushing back the stupidly long and gorgeous bangs that were keeping him from looking into both of Fushimi's eyes.

 

“You don't need to worry about that. If you recall, that's exactly what I want.”

 

“No, but it's not the same.” He sighed at the blank look he was getting. “When we first...y'know. My first time. It's a lot of trust to let someone do _this._ I know we like different things and need different things but I just can't bring myself to hurt you when I know I could _really_ hurt you. So...can we do it my way, this once?”

 

Fushimi blinked. He didn't refuse him outright, but there was doubt clouding his eyes and Yata quickly added, “If we start and it doesn't feel right to you then we can stop. I promise.”

 

“Tch. Fine.”

 

He pulled Yata down for a kiss, parting his lips immediately, speaking volumes where his words didn't. He pressed himself as close to Fushimi as physics would allow. Yata's stomach flipped at the feeling of the pendant between them, digging into his chest. He groped blindly to the side until he found the bottle Fushimi had taken out earlier. His fingers weren't nearly as coordinated as his boyfriend's, but he managed to open it with his thumb (a lot of effort for a few more moments kissing Fushimi without having to pull away, but he would bleed for mere seconds with him so this was nothing).

 

He pushed himself onto his elbows so he could put some of the clear liquid on his fingers. It would have been more practical to sit up or have Fushimi turn over but he needed him close, so close. He left enough room between them to raise Fushimi's lower back with one hand and slide the other one between his legs. He didn't care if it strained the muscles in his arms, not when he got to run his tongue along Fushimi's and taste his sweet, startled gasp when Yata brushed a finger over his entrance. He didn't go in yet, just circled there with his index finger until the lubricant was no longer cold and he was slick enough that the touch shouldn't have been unpleasant.

 

He couldn't resist any longer once Fushimi started pushing against his finger. He eased it in slowly and groaned into the kiss as he felt that tightness opening up to him. Fushimi's legs were folded around his waist, just under his ribs, and he could feel the faintest tremors in his thighs. _He's really into it already, huh?_ He'd had his doubts about whether or not it would feel good to him without the pain, but Fushimi keened against his mouth when his finger slid all the way in.

 

He reluctantly broke away from the kiss. “Are you okay?”

 

Fushimi turned his face into the pillow but his pale skin left no cover for the flush that had spread from his face to creep down his neck. “Keep going,” he said, muffled.

 

Yata began working his middle finger in, carefully, taking advantage of Fushimi's turned head to worry at his ear. He kissed at the rings there as he pushed his fingers deeper inside. Fushimi whimpered into the pillow but he was still pushing down against Yata's fingers so he kept going, laving his tongue over his earrings to distract him, the metal clinking together in a perfect melody with the high pitched sound Fushimi let out. He lowered himself a little, desperate for some amount of friction because Fushimi was making him so hard it hurt but he was _not_ going to rush this dammit.

 

“ _Ah,”_ Fushimi gasped as his cock slid against Yata's stomach.

 

Yata moved enough to rub against him again as he spread his two fingers, not wanting to hurt him but knowing it would hurt worse later if he didn't try to loosen him up. He guessed the distraction worked since Fushimi gasped louder and grabbed on to his shoulders. He couldn't help but groan as his own cock dragged across Fushimi's hip. He kept the contact at a minimum; god knows it wouldn't take much to go over the edge with Fushimi wrapped around his fingers like a vice and his legs twitching around his waist.

 

He twisted and curled his fingers in search of that spot Fushimi could locate so easily in him. As much as he loved the wanton display of Fushimi using his body to get friction on his cock, he lifted away from him so he could lift Fushimi's back higher. He curled his fingers again and Fushimi clawed at his shoulders with a loud cry.

 

“Misaki,” he choked, tightening up around him even more.

 

Yata stroked over the bundle of nerves and groaned as Fushimi's cock dripped precome. He was so _sensitive._ He didn't take his fingers away, just kept rubbing them over his prostate. Even though it was his idea, it was hard to take it slow when he couldn't stop thinking about how that clenching, greedy heat would feel around his cock, and a groan escaped him at the thought.

 

Fushimi grabbed at his wrist with trembling fingers. “ _Misaki,”_ he said, voice breaking.

 

Yata looked between them and saw copious precome leaking from Fushimi's cock, running down his stomach to his chest. His whole upper body was flushed and more fluid welled up as he moved his fingers faster.

 

“You good?” he asked when Fushimi clutched his wrist almost desperately.

 

Fushimi's glasses had long fallen off and his eyes seemed brighter, bluer than ever. “I'm g-gonna, if you don't stop I'm going to-”

 

“ _Oh_ , fuck. Do it. Come on, do it, please.”

 

He moaned as Fushimi began to spasm around his fingers. His arm ached from the way he held him but he probably would have died before he let go, hearing Fushimi's cries become incomprehensible and watching his body lock up. Then Fushimi was coming and Yata almost did the same just _seeing_ him. His release shot out, painting his chest white and a few drops hitting his neck. His head was thrown back, his hair in absolute disarray around his face and he was _beautiful._

 

He eased Fushimi down to the bed when the full body shakes tapered out to aftershocks. He took it even slower removing his fingers. Fushimi gave a little twitch at the stimulation but it didn't seem painful. Good. Watching Fushimi lose himself like that, Yata had wanted to see more of it, as much of it as he could and he was worried he'd gotten carried away. He grabbed the first soft material he touched on the floor and set to cleaning Fushimi up.

 

“I can-”

 

“Hey, lay down, I've got it,” he said, pulling the tank top away from Fushimi's reaching hands. It spoke to how fried Fushimi's brain was that he didn't remark on the fact it was _his_ tank top being used.

 

“That's never happened. Not just from...that,” Fushimi said, still hoarse from all the noise he had been making.

 

Yata tossed the shirt back on the floor and propped himself on one elbow next to Fushimi. He was so hard that it hurt but he had to make sure Fushimi was okay. “Heh. I guess I did good.”

 

Fushimi's eyes had slipped shut but he cracked one of them open at Yata's words. “Tch. You say that like we're done.”

 

“Well I wasn't sure if you still wanted to, or if you need to take a break then-”

 

Fushimi sat up and grabbed his face. He made a small, weak sound as Fushimi brought their lips together. He laid back again, and Yata followed, covering his body with his own. He pushed Fushimi's sweat dampened bangs out off his forehead as they kissed. Fushimi moved his legs so that Yata was between them and he fit there like he belonged there and maybe he did, if he would let himself entertain such a dangerous thought as permanency.

 

“Condoms?” he asked, pushing his pants the rest of the way down and off.

 

Fushimi shook his head. “I was your first, it's not like you could have anything.”

 

“Okay.”

 

He felt around for the lube again and liberally coated his fingers when he found it. He hissed as he spread the cold liquid over himself. He put more over Fushimi's entrance, just to be safe. Fushimi kissed him again, slotting their lips together suddenly and _softly_ and this side of Fushimi was going to be the death of him. He positioned himself and gave the slightest push. Fushimi breathed a little harder into his mouth but his arms went around Yata like an encouragement so he kept going.

 

“Saruhiko,” he said reverently against his lips.

 

Fushimi's fingers splayed over his shoulder blades, so warm underneath him and tight around him that he didn't know where he ended and Fushimi began. Tremors ran through Fushimi's body, no doubt from overstimulation as Yata slid against his sensitive walls. He shuddered once he was all the way inside.

 

He leaned his forehead against Fushimi's. “You feel so good.”

 

“You can move.” Fushimi's voice was wrought from use and pleasure, making Yata wonder if there would be anything left of it by the time they were done.

 

He slid out slowly and took just as much time to sheathe himself again. He knew he wouldn't last if he wasn't careful. A second, and then a third time, and Fushimi's fingers gripped his back tighter. Yata kissed him as his hips found a tentative rhythm. It wasn't fast but it was steady and deep, and it had Fushimi panting into the kiss, his cock stiffening between them. Yata wrapped his hand around it lightly and felt Fushimi's stomach tense up against his knuckles. Being inside him was nothing like what he'd expected from how it felt with his fingers. He thought he would enjoy it but he had nothing to compare this to, the ecstasy of being connected completely, of not knowing if the pounding he heard was his own blood rushing in his ears or Fushimi's heartbeat.

 

He wished he could have experienced that feeling for hours but he had been so worked up when they started and the sensations were too overwhelming for him to make it for long. The heat was already creeping from his center into the rest of his body, enveloping him even as he tried to stave it off.

 

Fushimi was fully hard again and he was stammering out gasps as Yata's hand worked in tandem with his hips. He couldn't get loud like before but Yata recognized the knitting of his eyebrows, the sudden strength Fushimi was holding on to him with and knew they were stumbling toward the same edge. He tucked his face between Fushimi's neck and shoulder and moaned against hot skin. The edges of Fushimi's pendant digging into his chest might have been uncomfortable if everything else didn't feel too amazing for him to care. With Fushimi's mouth next to his ear he could hear the whine in each of his gasps, getting higher in pitch every second.

 

Fushimi slid his legs against Yata's, dragging a foot up the back of his calf, and he had been so focused on not being pushed over the edge by what he was already feeling that the small touch sent him right over it.

 

“ _Yes,_ Misaki,” Fushimi cried in that perfectly wrecked voice.

 

Yata let out a guttural, almost growling moan from deep in his chest as he emptied himself inside Fushimi. He didn't know if that sound caused it but Fushimi immediately came over his fingers. His knees buckled as Fushimi seized around his cock, the last of his release spilling against Yata's abdomen. He didn't care. He didn't want to move. With the last of his orgasm fading he was overcome with something possessive and desperate. Heedless of the mess between them, he held Fushimi against him, and much to his surprise Fushimi moved his hands on his back only to wrap his arms around him, too.

 

He exhaled against Fushimi's neck until his breathing was back to normal and every lungful of air didn't feel like his last. He could also feel Fushimi's fluttering pulse against his cheek starting to slow.

 

He only moved far enough to lay next to him so his weight wasn't on Fushimi, but he still held his waist captive and Fushimi turned into him slightly, his hair fanning over Yata's bicep. His eyes were hazy but content in a way that made Yata's chest tighten. Fushimi wasn't looking at him from the safe distance he usually tried to keep or from behind walls he had spent years building so high that no one could see over them. _If pain was the only way he could feel anything during sex before, what is he feeling now?_ Yata wondered, once more straying dangerously close to the line he had drawn for himself. He had put it in place to keep from getting too invested when Fushimi may not ever be able to feel the same way as he did but Fushimi pushed him closer to it with everything he did; the way he touched him, the way he spoke, the stilted way he laughed and what was the point of the stupid line, anyway, because Yata loved him.

 

God _dammit._

 

It's not like he hadn't realized it before, he just stomped it down every time it got too close to the surface. It had just finally consumed too much of him to fit even in the most well protected corners of his mind. There was no room to run from it when he was looking at Fushimi and feeling it with every fiber of his being like a proven fact. The sun would come up in the morning and the guns next to them were loaded and he was in love with Saruhiko Fushimi.

 

“Saru,” he said, turning fully on his side to face him. “There's something I need to tell you.”

 

He didn't want to say it but Fushimi had to know, and with his realization at the forefront of his mind, the guilt would eat him alive if he didn't tell him.

 

“What is it?”

 

Fushimi still sounded so at ease and Yata hated himself.

 

He averted his eyes at first, tracing one of the thin stretch marks that ran from Fushimi's hip down his thigh, but he made himself look up as he said, “I was looking for some pain medicine in your bathroom one day and I saw a prescription pill bottle. I didn't know what it was for, and I should have just left it alone, but I looked it up later.”

 

Fushimi stared at him. “Oh.”

 

“I found out what the Trilafon is for and it doesn't change what I think about you or anything, I just...I'm sorry. I should have asked you or forgot about it. I just wanted to make sure you were okay but I went behind your back. I'm really sorry.”

 

“Hm.”

 

Fushimi idly traced the veins that stood out in Yata's forearm holding his waist. He left Yata like that for a few minutes, trying to decipher his silence, trying to read his face to no avail. He hadn't shoved him off the bed or killed him with a scary doctor move so that was something but it was also nothing, Yata would have taken any reaction just to get an idea what he was thinking.

 

“I guess it doesn't really matter. You already know I'm not right in the head.”

 

_And I love you anyway._ “Maybe you're not but I don't care what you're working through. I just hope you'll still let me be around whether you're playing with a full deck or not.”

 

“I'm not schizophrenic,” Fushimi said with the air of someone who had gotten tired of saying it. “I was misdiagnosed by someone with good intentions who thought they were helping. I've never taken the pills because I don't need them.” 

Yata rubbed his lower back, having felt the tension gathering there since the conversation started. “Okay.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You aren't going to ask why he thought I had schizophrenia?”

 

“You can tell me if you want to but I'm not going to push you, especially since I only know about the medicine because I was prying. I'm here for you if you wanna talk about it, though. If you'll let me be.”

 

Fushimi smiled. It was lopsided but genuine and perfect. “I already knew you were an idiot, now I just know you're a nosy idiot. But, I guess you can stay.”

 

Yata pulled him against his chest. He enjoyed it for a few blissful moments before he felt the tackiness of their earlier activities between them. “We've really gotta clean up.”

 

Fushimi's back shook with a silent laugh. “We do.”

 

“Come on.”

 

They got up from the bed still tangled in the sheets and each other. The comforter had gotten pushed off at some point and the sheet was somewhat wrapped around Fushimi. He pulled it around Yata, bringing them back together, kissing him lazily like an afterthought and _god_ Yata loved him.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to anyone who took the time to read this! I have done a lot of research but seeing as I am not a doctor nor do I live in a big city, I would be super appreciative if you let me know any inaccuracies you noticed, if you're maybe a med student or live in NY. I am open to all constructive criticism, those are just specific things I could use help with if you have any knowledge of them <3 :)
> 
> A huge, and very special thank you to my Iwa-Chan, who listens to all my ideas and has given me a lot of great ones, as well. I couldn't have done it without you <3 <3 <3


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